To the Ends of the Earth
by writergurl88
Summary: Elizabeth is thrust into shallow English society. Will must face his father's haunting past and those bent on separating him from his love. PreDMC WE [Chapter 13 Up]
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean... there, now that's out of the way.  
  
A/N: Almost a year ago I wrote a piece called 'Will' (original title, huh?) I got around forty-something reviews, pretty good, I guess, for my first fanfic. I had this pretty good idea for a sequel, though it follows a more historical account of the early 1700's (no undead pirates or Aztec gods, sorry:-). It is classified as action/romance and stuff, though the action won't start until maybe around chapter 10, but I'm going for character development at the beginning, so I hope that's okay. I am currently in need of a beta reader, not just for grammar b/c I think I have a pretty good handle on the technical stuff, but in the sense of an older, more experienced writer giving me tips on character relations and better writing technique. (by older, I mean college-level or a VERY experienced and acclaimed high school upperclassman fanfiction/fiction writer. I think my email is on my profile, but if it isn't, just leave a signed review at the end of this chapter and I'll get back to you. Thanks!   
  
Chapter 1  
  
It had been a hard day at the forge, and Will needed a bath-and sleep, but as he passed the wrought iron gates of the governor's mansion and saw her light in the upper window, he stopped. His feet immediately complained, having been standing in hard soles on a dirt floor for twelve hours ceaselessly, and he shifted from foot to foot to ease the swelling. His eyes fixated on the delicate fluttering of her curtain in the breeze. Her silhouette was feathery against the cloth, and he watched the dimness of her movements in complete rapture.  
  
Her hair was bound up, but soon he saw her arm raise up, and the shadow of her curls rippling to her shoulders fell across the 'screen'. He drew in his breath sharply, and turned away from the window. Movement caught his attention, and he looked again to see her pulling the curtain away to gaze across the courtyard.   
  
Moonlight filtered through the thin cloud covering, and it fell upon her, wrapped in her dressing gown and free of corsets, pins, and propriety. Will stepped into the black shadow that a tree cast. He was not prepared for her to speak to him yet. He shifted his eyes to the moon. There had been a time not so long past when he feared it, for it reminded him of a thing which almost took that which was most precious to him. Now he thought it the most beautiful substance on earth, as it shone upon his beloved.   
  
He looked down at his grubby shoes and clothing. He was a fool for such musings, and a romantic fool at that. He didn't deserve her; for all that she had lowered herself to taking his name before she even realized she desired it. Or stood up against men with the power to take her life and prevailed, all for the fact that she would give her life for him, and he the same.   
  
Soft strains of song floated from the window; Will heard it, and a smile came to his wearied face. So, she still dared to sing it. She still held to the hope that one day she would be free from the trappings of governor's daughter, sailing on the open sea. He sighed and stepped from his hiding place to the silvered street. She saw him, and did not speak, but she stood very erect in the window, and her face bore incertitude coupled with yearning.  
  
Will resignedly turned and walked to where he leaned against the gate, the metal cool under his fingers, and he gazed up the black shafts absentmindedly to admire the handiwork. Elizabeth's curtain closed, and he heard her moving through the house as she made for the exit. The door opened, and he heard the faint sound of a wracking cough, then the door closed and she was there behind the gate, clothed only in her night shift and dressing gown.   
  
They did not speak, but both were very close to one another, the only barrier being the gate. Her eyes were reproachful, stating the evident. As he stepped closer and took the sleeve of her robe in his fingers, the expression changed, and he knew she had missed him acutely.  
  
"Must I say what is plain for eyes to see?" She said softly, grasping the warm wrist on her sleeve. His skin was soft here, compared to the thick roughness of his blacksmith's hands-- soft and full of feeling that relaxed him.   
  
"Nay," He replied. "I have not been attending to matters more urgent than business deals." His breath caught in his throat, and he lowered his deep voice even more, "Matters of the heart."   
  
Elizabeth nodded, and leaned against the gate, the cold iron biting her skin. They fell silent, their eyes probing the others'. Will laid a hand on her cheek, his fingers laying flat, then curling slightly in a motion that reminded Elizabeth of how a cat kneaded its mother for milk. "Still I must ask." She brought her hand up and rested it on the back of the hand that touched her face, her fingertips running along the ridges and hollows that his veins made across it. "Why haven't you been to see me?"   
  
"I didn't think it proper." Will's other hand crept through the bars near her side, where he laid it upon her shoulder. "I did not think it proper," he repeated, "to loiter about your property in an inappropriate fashion."  
  
Elizabeth pressed her face to the bars of the gate, eyes looking at his face in a scathing manner. "You mean you thought you would do me a dishonor of having the town blacksmith court the governor's daughter candidly?" She cocked her head, struggling to read the stiff mask that was his expression. "You could not assume I would be ashamed of you."   
  
He considered her words, then "Partially." He fished about for words, wishing to fill the void in the night air. "I thought you might think less of me, now that I can no longer act the pirate and fulfill your fancy."   
  
Elizabeth's brow furrowed, then she laughed. "You thought I favored a pirate? Dear William, it takes more than a sword and disregard for the law to capture my fancy." She bestowed a glowing smile upon him. He returned her attentions, and bent to claim her lips; the iron was thick, and their faces strained to make contact, but failed, and they resolved just to stand there, close together, drinking in the other's presence.   
  
A string of hacking coughs drifted from the house, and Elizabeth pulled from the intimate trance in which she found herself. "I shall have to leave you for now, Will." She whispered; a blatant change from her prior merry humor, and felt his hands slide from their warm places on her face and shoulder as she retreated to the door. Will still leaned against the gate, piercing brown eyes following her every move in complete adoration.   
  
"Goodnight, then." He said inaudibly, forcing himself to return to the now darkened street.   
  
Elizabeth closed the door of the house and leaned against it, feeling cold in the absence of Will's presence. Hoarse coughing sounded from the upstairs bedrooms; she closed her eyes and took in her breath sharply. Drawing her robe close around her, she ascended the steps jerkily, her fingers cold and unfeeling of the balustrade sliding beneath them. She passed into her father's room and looked upon the shrunken figure that lay there.   
  
Governor Swann was a large, proud man that Elizabeth recalled with fondness from her childhood. As she grew older, she realized his faults, but it endeared him all the more to her. He had always protected her-until pirates snatched her from his reach.   
  
As she gazed upon him now, weak with illness and delirium, she could not help but to blame herself for his diminish. Upon her return to the manor after her escapades, she had heard the servants talking in hushed tones of how the governor had worried himself from health. The doctors diagnosed his coughs and weakness to an excess of choler and took blood, but still, she blamed herself, and attended to him night and day along with his nurses.   
  
Elizabeth crossed the room and knelt by his bedside, pressing cool cloths from the wash basin to his brow as he murmured in his restless slumber. "Victoria?" He muttered, one bleary eye opening. He spoke of Elizabeth's long-dead mother.  
  
"It's all right, Father." She said softly, her fingers combing through the thinning hair usually concealed beneath an elaborate wig. He fell to sleep again; she wiped his glistening forehead and unbuttoned a few holes in his nightshirt, adjusting the sheets to a cooler position. This done, she kissed his damp cheek and blew out the candle, making her way to her own room.   
  
Her bed was untouched, the moonlight sifting through the curtains to lie on her quilt. Sighing, she returned to the window seat. Will was no longer there, but she gazed over the island with a thoughtful expression, her mind crossing streets and barriers to the blacksmith shop-a place she had not been since she was young and Will newly apprenticed there.   
  
She wondered why he spent every waking hour there-what was it about fresh metal and heat of coals and the constant banging and sparks of the hammer that so demanded his attention? Or was it a love of creation? That the effects of long hours and sweat and heat could result in a fine weapon that could kill and protect. Whatever it was that drew him to the profession, she was jaded by it, and wished Will could find a way out of his single-minded devotion. Or simply divert it.   
  
She smiled at this thought, but her smile faded quickly as she was sobered by other thoughts. She looked to her bed. She needed rest, whether her mind would allow it or not. Resignedly she clambered into the pillows, unable to quench her feeling of cold.  
  
A/N: Okay, slightly angsty, but I promise, the rest of the story will be a little/a lot more upbeat. I feel I am entitled to a few somber chapters later on, right? Heck, it's my story. Review! 


	2. Patterns

Disclaimer: same as before, don't own it, except for the OC's.   
  
A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed! Shoutouts go to Pirate Shy, for telling me about the black pearl yahoo group, and to RachTheEvilBitcateer-NonEunuch (what a mouthful;-), for referring me to a beta reader and linking my story at their site.   
  
Chapter 2  
  
The morning that dawned was clear, and Will watched it creep into the alleyway through the window in his shop. The fire was heating, and he would have to close the window when he began to form the metal to keep up the temperature. The morning air was the only refreshment he got those days, for when he close up shop for lunch the midday sun scorched the streets and was no better than the sweltering shop.   
  
He could not step outside and leave the fire unattended, so he leaned on the sill, letting the cool air caress his face. He studied his hands, absorbed in thought. Must he work today? He was not poor-he got a fair wage from the selling of his swords and his own small inheritance from his mother years before still allowed his life to be sufficing, if not comfortable. His eyes shifted to the racks full of weapons. He would not need to make swords today. Building and things that might require iron tools were done more in the short months when the weather cooled a few degrees so that it was not unpleasant even at midday. Perhaps he could leave the shop for the day and see if there was work to be done elsewhere.   
  
Elizabeth slept late that day, the sun high when the maids laced her into her dress. She was torn betwixt the duty of attending to her father in his remaining weeks, and keeping up her own health. She almost decided on the former, but the day was irresistibly beautiful, with a breeze off the sea. Thus, she tucked her hair into a bonnet and set off from the house for the blacksmith shop. The only positive thing she could draw from the governor's illness was her freedom. He could not insist her an escort to follow at her heels.   
  
She hummed a tune as she walked along the cobbled streets, the same one Will had heard the night before. It was a simple, childish tune, the words repetitive and silly, but still it put cheer in her heart. Arriving before the door of the shop, she paused, hearing no clang or hiss of metal inside. She laid her hand on the latch nonetheless, but she turned at a hand on her shoulder. Will stood there, a smile on his face. "This is a surprise. Why come here, of all places?"   
  
Elizabeth returned the smile, "I thought I might slip away." She shrugged and made move to embrace him, but his hand still firmly on her shoulder stopped her. He glanced at the busy avenue; it would not do for the governor's daughter to be embracing a blacksmith in the eyes of the public. She sighed. Will was not of nobility, but he held more propriety than she ever wished to possess-even after his daring attempts at sea that still held him under the suspicious eye of the royal militia.   
  
"Would you care to accompany me to the wharf, Eliz-Miss Swan?" He asked, offering her his arm.   
  
She took it, feeling protected in his strong grip. She strained to his ear as they set off through the crowd; "It's still Elizabeth, Will."   
  
"But Miss Swann it must be to outside eyes."  
  
"I don't care about outside eyes."  
  
Will nodded and replied, "You have no manner of decorum, really. I don't know how the governor managed to successfully launch you onto society. All manners of suitors come to your every whim! Even with your great charm, I wonder at how you did not manage to discourage them."   
  
She bit her lip at mention of her father, but grinned at his jest. "Oh, I suppose the dowry that came along with me compensated for my 'lack of decorum' as you put it."   
  
"I wouldn't take it. I'd say, 'Governor Swann, you can keep your handsome dowry and the bride along with it. She's a much untamed and unpredictable lass. What would the world come to when I chose a lass like that to mother my children?'" He said this all very loudly, and while Elizabeth laughed at his harangue, she still attempted to silence him to keep it from the ears of the entire street.   
  
"Honestly, Will! Must you carry on like that?" She clutched at his arm as she laughed; tripping on a cobblestone that stuck up from its brethren. He caught her as she pitched forward, and she took his arm again with a flush to her cheeks.   
  
"Not to mention she's as clumsy as..." Will paused, thinking of a proper analogy, while Elizabeth stuck her foot in front of his, and he stumbled himself.  
  
"As Will is?" She finished, her laughter increased. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.  
  
"Fair enough." They fell silent for a moment, and then Elizabeth ventured conversation once more.  
  
"What do you need at the wharf?"   
  
"I need to see a man about Mr. Brown, my late master. This man is his only relative, and was left the blacksmith shop. I intend to buy it from him so that I can apprentice a lad and have some spare time after he has sufficient skill."   
  
"Oh. Quite an ambitions project for a pirate, if I may say so."   
  
Will sighed. "Well, this pirate has no 'ship' and is in desperate need of one."   
  
Elizabeth looked up into his eyes, an intonation free of mirth filling her face. "Will, do you ever tire of the smithy? Surely it was not your first profession of preference."  
  
His brow wrinkled, and he returned her gaze. "It was not, but it is the only thing I know, and I feel that you would not have me join a merchant vessel to seek my fortune on the dangers of the sea-away from you."   
  
"Do you ever think of returning to England?"   
  
Again he sighed. "There is nothing there for me, only my mother's memory. Here at the colony, I have a chance to make a good life where business is abundant and fresh." He smiled at her. "England was never the place for me. I only lingered to see my mother to the end of her days in peace."  
  
"You always seemed to me to be the kind of man who cares and looks after the ones he loves tirelessly."   
  
He turned his attentions from him to her. "What do you see for your future, Miss Elizabeth?"   
  
She offered a benign expression, "In the manner of all things tradition and expected, I marry a nobleman in England, bear him heirs, and become a lady of gossip and parties." Her expression changed, light brown eyes taking on a distant, earnest glint. "I would like," she said, voice vehement and brisk, "to visit the desert countries, and the mountains of the Far East. To see the gilded halls of heathen kings in their courts of silk."   
  
"Where do you hear of these things?" Will asked, amazed.  
  
"In books my governess in England forbid me, books my father slipped into my pockets when said governess heads' were turned." She replied.  
  
"Did your father always indulge your whims?" Will found it hard to believe the pompous governor could be wrapped around anyone's finger.  
  
"He felt that no knowledge should be denied me if I desired it." She added, "Well, knowledge he approved of, at least." She thought of his discouraging of her interest in pirates.   
  
"As I said, you're a much savage and eccentric lass, Elizabeth Swann." Will declared, his voice held in veneration and affection.   
  
They came to the wharf; a place full of vessels docked or beached being scraped of their barnacles, of fisherman's nets and gulls that swooped over the docks to find remnants of the previous day's bounty. There was a large building near the wharf, and it was the door to which Will headed. He gave a loud knock, and a burly man with a weathered face answered the door.   
  
"Harbormaster, I have come about the items Mr. Brown left you in his estate." Will stated authoritatively.  
  
The harbormaster's leathery face peered at the boy, then to the girl at his arm. "I assume you be young Mr. Turner, me dead cousin's apprentice. And Miss....?" He cast an eye to Will in question.   
  
"Miss Swann." She spoke for herself, eyeing the man in slight reproach.   
  
"Gov'ner's daughter, eh? Didn't know you courted such a milady, Mr. Turner." He said in a growling voice. "Inside, then?" He held the door open, and the pair stepped inside to make their business dealings. Inside were rude tables and a few chairs, surrounded by plain, whitewashed walls. "Sit." The harbormaster voiced shortly. He extended a gruff hand to Will. "Name's Durham. Now, what do you want, Mr. Turner?"   
  
Not taken aback, Will proceeded, "I have worked in the old blacksmith shop for near half my life. It has no sentimental value, but it is the only way I can make a livelihood. I wish to purchase it from you."   
  
"Couldn't I just employ you?"   
  
"Would you not rather have your hands free of it?"   
  
Durham considered this for a moment, then--"How much would you be willing to pay?" He said slowly.  
  
As the two paltered, Elizabeth drew amusement from watching Will involved in something other than crafting or piracy. He wasn't brilliant at commerce; he was efficient, if it could be said. It was presumably a good thing that the harbormaster dealt with things such as docking schedules and ship repair rather than business. Eventually they settled on a price, and emerged from the dank shanty with the deed an hour later.   
  
"Please tell me this won't take much longer.... Not that I'm not enjoying myself, but it is such a lovely afternoon, and I had hoped to see the beach before tea." Elizabeth interjected as the couple made their way along the dock.   
  
"I have already spoken to a lad about an apprenticeship. It shouldn't take but a minute." Will assured her as they came to a dock where several teenage boys lounged, their duties finished until the fisherman returned in the evening with their catch. Spying Elizabeth, they scrambled from their lazy positions to stand straight.   
  
"Christopher, I now own the shop, if you are still interested in the blacksmith trade." Will said to a golden-headed boy whose cheeks were red from the sun exposure.   
  
"Yes, Mr. Turner, I still am." He nodded, making evident efforts to appear nonchalant.   
  
"Good. Next week, then, I'll see you early on Monday."   
  
The sun stretched across the bay, sending hot rays upon their heads, and making them wish keenly for the cool darkness of the shop. Will and Elizabeth hurried from the wharf, back to the blacksmith shop, so that Will could stow the deed in a secure place. They reached the wooden door, which Will pushed open, then closed behind them. Elizabeth stood near a beam, untying the strings of her bonnet while Will secured the record.   
  
He came from the back room to see her taking the bonnet from her head, light brown curls spilling down her shoulders. He crossed the room in a few steps to stand by her side. "It has been long since I saw you, Elizabeth. I am glad you spent the better part of the day with me." He said, but she silenced him with her finger to his lips.   
  
Elizabeth pressed her lips to his, only their second kiss since their adventures at sea. That kiss had been lovely, but under the eyes of her father. Here they were alone; here they could say what words could not.  
  
He placed soft kisses at her temples and long her jaw, then crossing up to claim her lips once more. Her mouth slid, closed, across his, then, her lips opened, and his tongue touched her teeth. She paused, then met his tongue with hers, both mouths opening in a deep kiss.   
  
A knock at the door startled the lovers, who quickly collected themselves as Will answered the door. It was a customer for him, who had requested some nails from him a week earlier. Will fetched them and collected the money, then returned to Elizabeth. One arm held her around the waist; one hand caressed her face, his fingers roaming the thickness of her hair.   
  
"As much as I would like to keep you here with me, I feel I must return you home." He said huskily, a hint of dejection in his eyes.   
  
"At least come to the shore before supper, if you can spare the time." She pleaded, reaching for her bonnet. "Have you much work to accomplish?"   
  
"Business has been slow. I can spare the evening." He conceded with a light kiss. "Come."  
  
He left her near the manor front door; turning as he exited with a wave and broad smile, then was gone around the gate. A maid held the door open, a serious expression upon her homely face.  
  
"The gov'ner's been asking to your whereabouts, Miss Swann." She said, ushering the lady into the darkened house.   
  
"He should worry about his health, rather than a grown daughter." Elizabeth murmured as she hastened to the bedroom. Her father was sitting up in bed, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, coughs wracking his body.   
  
"Elizabeth," He wheezed, inhaling steam rising from a basin of boiled herbs placed beside the bed. His coughs subsided for a moment, and he surveyed his daughter in her yellow visiting dress, smelling of sunlight and sea breezes. "You've been gallivanting off with that young Mr. Turner, have you not?" He doubled over; red drops of blood appearing on the lace cloth.  
  
"I have. We are courting." She stated, biting one soft lip. "He is a fine, hard-working man, Father. You should think of your health and not look after us."   
  
"I am aware of that, but you need a man who can take care of you when I-am gone." He took a few deep breaths from the bowl of herbs.   
  
"He will. He can, and remember, we are only courting."  
  
"Elizabeth, the time is quickly approaching when you will need a man beside you, one who can take over my duties and manage your inheritance properly. Mr. Turner is a fine man and deserves credit for looking after you this far, but the duties he would be called to attend were he to wed you are above his station." Elizabeth watched as he was taken by another fit of coughs.   
  
"That day when I pledged my heart to Will, you asked if it was where my heart lay, and I said it was. Do you now withdraw your affirmation when your soundness suddenly fails you?" She said this quietly, but fell silent as he slumped against the pillows, exhausted.   
  
Will had removed his shoes and let the sand tickle his feet as he sat on the beach, waves colored purple by the twilight lapping quietly. He gazed to the sky; the lingering clouds still holding bits of orange and gold from the newly set sun. Elizabeth sat near him in a similar fashion, her pale toes etching meaningless doodles in the sugary footing, her fingers tracing patterns across his palm.   
  
Eyeing her fidgeting movements Will curled his fingers around her hand firmly, drawing her eyes to his face. "What distracts you?"   
  
"It is not sufficient to tell." She lowered her eyes, as if finding it hard to meet his in honesty.   
  
"Look at me." He prompted, voice gentle.   
  
She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, then bit the lower one, her eyes catching the last remnants of golden sunlight as they met his. "Father is not well."   
  
He parted his lips to speak, but she shook her head slightly. "I wish not to speak of it at the moment." Will nodded and averted his eyes to the horizon, releasing her fingers to return to tracing across his roughened palm.  
  
A/N: Like? Review! Don't sulk behind that monitor!!! :-). I hope to have a new update up around the middle of June (sorry for the long wait, I have camp and family vacation back to back starting tomorrow.) 


	3. New Management

A/N: This is a long a/n. It is about my vacation which was in Washington, DC (reagan stuff), so if you don't want to read, skip to the start of chapter 3.   
Here we go:  
  
It is two and a half days driving from where I live to Washington, so when we arrived we had no idea that the former pres. was dead. When we finally hooked up the cable in our RV, the death was on the news, and that the memorial procession would be in the city.   
  
Anyway, Wednesday we took the Metro up to the air & space Smithsonian and around five went to line up along Constitution Avenue. It was pretty crowded, but I was able to get a place on the railing separating us from the street. Around 6:45 the procession made it to where we were. First a bunch of policemen on motorcycles drove up in a V formation, then came a lot of police cars and black secret service cars (you can tell because the windows are all blacked out and have a bunch of antennas stuck to the trunk). Then all branches of the military marched in groups with their respective bands for about ten minutes. Then some soldiers riding black horses led the caisson, which was led by six black horses (I think racehorses or fresians) and carried the flag-draped coffin on a black wagon. Following it was a military man leading the riderless black racehorse, with Pres. Reagan's old riding boots turned backwards in the stirrups. More black cars followed, and one was a short limo with Nancy and some other people in it. We were lucky to be on the side of the street that Nancy was sitting in the car on, because she waved as she went by (she looked really feeble).  
  
As the procession turned onto 4th street, a squadron of fighter planes swooped down over the street, in the 'missing man' formation. Then people started abandoning the streets to stand in the mall area (a big, grassy rectangle between the capitol and the Washington memorial), where we could see the caisson and military lined up in front of it. Nancy stood with her general escort at the top of some stairs. We couldn't see very well what was happening, it was pretty far away, but a guy pulled up in his car and turned on the radio, which was offering commentary to the events at the capitol. We watched the military take the coffin up the stairs and into the rotunda, then we joined the throngs of people migrating towards the Metro station.  
  
It was a really heart-wrenching thing to watch, and I can tell you I cried when we watched the funeral at Simi Valley a few days later. I could go on and on, but I know you really want to read the next chapter, so without further ado...

* * *

Chapter 3  
  
The days passed slowly for Elizabeth. Her father's condition did not worsen, but he did not grow better. She felt herself responsible once more, and helped with chores that did not require her assistance, and tended her mother's flowers with loving hands. The flowers had been sent from the Swanns' old house in England by her mother's relatives. Before, the gardener had tended the patch of crocuses and lilies and irises, but as Elizabeth felt her only surviving parent slipping away, she was drawn to remember one whose passing she had taken for granted.   
  
One hot morning she bent over the steaming beds of fresh earth, tilling the ground with her spade and yanking up intrusive weeds when she felt a presence, and rose to her feet, dirt clinging to the knees of her skirt and her hair awry. Will stood there, an admiring eye sweeping over the colorful rows. "I did not know you tended a garden." He commented, now eyeing Elizabeth's unkempt state. "You look suited to the work." A sparkle came to his eyes.  
  
"You spite me, William." She bit, color rising to her cheeks but a smile tugging at her lips.   
  
"Forgive me. Tell me what it is you tend." He stepped across the few feet between them to stand beside her, a hand reaching down to brush the petals of a fragrant blossom. The other hand twined around her waist, toying with the bow that held her apron.   
  
"Daffodils. And those over there are Tudor roses."   
  
He smiled again and met her eyes. "I had almost forgotten the traditional flowers of old England. The native blossoms here are exotic, but nothing makes an Englishman feel English like daffodils." His eyes filled with mirth, and Elizabeth laughed.  
  
"You tease, but your words do hold some truth." They shared another laugh; Will leading her to a stone bench beneath a tree Elizabeth had climbed as a child. Silence followed.  
  
"How fares the governor?" He asked hesitantly, searching her face for remorse.   
  
"The same." She answered shortly, absentmindedly brushing clumps of dirt from her apron.   
  
"I feared so." He reached for and clasped her hand as she sighed.  
  
"Our lives are changing, Will. It never was to be simple for us, and future events may complicate things further." Elizabeth leaned into him, her head brushing his shoulder.  
  
"Do not fret. Remember only that you have no control over what happens to the governor." Will admonished gently, stroking the wispy hairs that had escaped her plait.   
  
"I know... I know." She said faintly, her body feeling sluggish and weary.   
  
After a moment's silence she lifted her head and cocked it, gazing inquiringly into his face. "How goes the shop?"   
  
"Christopher is a quick to please, but slow to learn. I admire his diligence, though." He replied with a grin.   
  
"Perhaps I will stop by later today." Elizabeth rose to her feet, untying the apron and laying it over her arm. Will followed her, wrapping his arms about her waist.   
  
"I anxiously await your visit." With a kiss, he departed.   
  
Elizabeth watched his departure with a furrowed brow, then turned and walked into the house. Entering her bedchamber, she laid the dirty apron over a chair, and sat at her dressing table, turning a silver, bone-handled brush in her hands. "Miss?" Elizabeth turned at the timid voice of her maid.   
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Would ye like me to take care of that for ye?"   
  
Elizabeth glanced down at her dirty hands, then up to her face, which was slightly perspiring in the humidity of midsummer. She smiled. "Please."   
  
Deftly, the maid took the brush from her fingers and ran in it slow, deliberate strokes down her mistress's locks, curiosity suddenly peaked.  
  
"How does young Mr. Turner fare, if I might ask?"   
  
Elizabeth, surprised at the forward question also found herself uncommonly demure on the subject. "He now owns the smithy, and has hired an apprentice, whom I am to meet on the hour."   
  
"I gather Mr. Turner is a diligent young man. An admirable husband for any lady." The maid ventured.  
  
"I suppose he is." Elizabeth said softly. She looked down modestly, her cheeks hinting a slight blush that was becoming to her.   
  
The maid took up a ribbon and hair pins from the dressing table, and quickly put up the now snarl-free tresses into a loose knot. "There ye are miss. Would ye like your bonnet now?"   
  
"Just put it on the dressing table, then you may leave. I should return after noon." Elizabeth nodded, waiting for the door to close. She then rose and washed her hands in the basin, taking the bonnet from the table and exiting the room.   
  
Will wiped his brow, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows as he observed his apprentice's work. So far this morning, Christopher had made his first piece of folded steel, finished a horseshoe, and dented every tool Will had worked to keep looking new the past years. "That's enough for the morning, lad." Will called over the hissing of the steel as Christopher placed it in a barrel of water.   
  
He wiped his hands on his leather apron and crossed the smithy to where his master stood. "Why have you called a halt so early today, sir?" He brushed a few cinders from his hair and crossed his arms.  
  
Will contemplated his apprentice's grimy, sooty appearance, then replied, "I am to have a visitor today." He crossed the room and opened a window so that the stifling shop might chance a cool breeze.   
  
"Is it Miss Swann?"   
  
"Never you mind. Go out back and clean yourself in the rain barrel. There should be soap in the old tinder box." Will shooed the inquisitive youth from the room, then opened the narrow door to the back room that served as office, kitchen, and occasionally bunkhouse. There was a small table with two chairs shoved beneath it. A few tarnished silver pewter candlesticks held pale tallow tapers, and slightly battered pewterware and cutlery rested on a shelf. With a sigh, he moved into the room and began to work.   
  
Elizabeth opened the smithy door, but as she was about to step inside, the red-faced, blonde lad squeezed past her into the street. "Master William is in the back room. Tell him I'm off at the wharf." With that, he doffed his cap and stuck his hands in his pockets, whistling as he strode down the cobbled street. She smiled at the boy's carefree manner, then turned her attention to the seemingly empty shop, and stepped inside.   
  
It was dim, with shafts of light speckling the floor from the open chinks in the building. The hearth was a pile of ashes, and she heard rustling from the back room. Elizabeth removed her bonnet and let her arm fall to her side, the strings of the cap trailing on the straw-strewn ground. The door to the back room was slightly ajar, and she could see soft candlelight creeping from the narrow opening. Suddenly the light was blocked, and Will stood in the doorway, his dark locks tied back loosely, his shirt buttoned up to his collarbone.  
  
"Elizabeth." He extended an arm and took her hand in his, leading her into the back room. She let her eyes wander from Will's face to the table, where a meal of fish, cheese, ale, and steaming bread rested in humble pewter, and tapers burned in tarnished candlesticks it seemed he had attempted to clean. A red cloak had been thrown over the table, and the rubbish in the room had been covered with heavy, patched material. "I though to invite you to dinner." Will said simply as she observed her surroundings.   
  
"Oh, Will." Was all she could say. He still held her hand in his, the callused thumb tracing back and forth across the back of her palm. She reached her free hand to rest on the back of a battered chair that had been expertly sanded and covered with an old, but clean, cushion. Will hastened to pull the chair from the table so that she might sit, then awkwardly pushed it in after her, concentrating on not tripping on the several feet of lace and brocade that now trailed on the ground near her chair. He then moved the short distance to his side of the table and sat, reaching across the table to clasp her hand once more.   
  
His dark eyes gazed into hers for what seemed infinity, but at last he ventured the question that had been termagant in the back of his mind. "Does this please you?" His voice was a low rumble, sending chills down her spine.   
  
"Many times over. What is the event, if I am not discourteous to ask?"   
  
Will leaned across the table and claimed her lips in a soft kiss that lingered for only a moment. "'Tis the occasion of my profession of love for you."   
  
Elizabeth collected herself, still smiling from their kiss. "But, you have already told me of this love."   
  
"And I say it again." He kissed her once more, then busied himself filling her plate from the dishes before them, and then did the same for himself. Elizabeth watched his face carefully, as if in anticipation of further affectation. He apparently had said the extent of his ardor at the moment, so with a slight frown, she began on her meal.   
  
Christopher rounded the corner of the street, whistling a tune he had often heard Master William humming under his breath. Looking, down he kicked a pebble in the road with the toe of his shoe, suddenly thinking of dinner. Usually Will shared his bread and cheese with him at noontime, and cooked supper in the meager kitchen at Will's tenement. Scowling, Christopher looked up to spy a wealthy businessman and his wife step out of a carriage and enter a shop.   
  
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and followed. The building was a dress shop, and the couple was sporting a purse sagging with gold. Christopher hid among the bolts of cloth at the back of the shop and contemplated his best option.   
  
A few minutes later, he emerged from the shop with a handful of coins pocketed, eyes searching out a food stall. He bought a loaf of bread from the baker and an apple from the fruit seller and leaned against a warm stone wall to enjoy his meal, the remaining coins resulting from his handiwork jingling in his pocket. Before Will had taken him on as an apprentice and before he worked at the harbor, he lived on the streets of London as a pickpocket. Christopher had learned this profession at a young age when his parents were sent to the poorhouse and he turned out on the street. He had lived in alleyways and on doorsteps for several years, until he was able to procure cabin boy on a merchant vessel and taken to the Caribbean.   
  
Looking down at his meal, he supposed he should have just gone hungry and waited for supper, but then, if he could get away with anything, he would.   
  
As Will escorted her home, Elizabeth observed a carriage stationed in front of the mansion, the horses reined short so that their heads were forced to be held high, giving the carriage an air of nobility. She clenched her teeth at the steeds' treatment; from the way they pawed and snorted, pulling against the tight bridling. She vaguely recognized the emblem on the coach door; her brow knitted as she and Will came to the front door.   
  
They hesitated before it, then Elizabeth turned the latch and stepped into the house, Will following close behind. The household was bustling about, and there seemed to be more servants than was usual. "Is the governor expecting someone?" Will inquired quietly in her ear, his hand at her elbow.  
  
"I am unaware of any invitation." She replied, noting the sparkling floors and dusted chandeliers. Since her father's illness, the servants had been a bit lax about keeping the house spotless, and the change in cleanliness was noticeable. She turned to Will and said softly, "Wait here for a moment. I must step in on my father."   
  
He resigned himself to standing near the banister, eyes following as Elizabeth ascended the landing and swept out of sight. Upon entering her father's chamber, she was astonished to see the curtains open and the governor in his wig and dressing gown seated at his writing desk, a tall, distinguished man of an older age with a pompous expression.   
  
"Ah, Elizabeth, I had wondered where you had gone off to," Governor Swann said, his voice unconvincingly jovial. The other man nodded his head in greeting and returned to examining the leather ledger open on her father's desk. "This is the Baron Montefiore, your mother's brother. He's here to procure my duties for a time."   
  
"It is no favor. I was having too dull of a time overseeing old Montefiore Manor, and thought I might look in on my late sister's family. God rest her soul." Coming from any other person, the statement might have been warm and lighthearted, but it sounded long-winded and arrogant from this man that was her uncle. The baron closed the ledger and exited the room; Elizabeth guessed he made for the governor's office on the ground floor. She cringed at the thought that the presumptuous nobleman would catch sight of Will waiting in the entrance hall, in his rough clothing and slightly unbathed smell that only a true-blood noble would detect.   
  
"Father, your duties are not as extensive to require him to travel the expanse from England. What are his real motives for coming here?" Elizabeth asked abruptly, noticing how the governor had slumped wearily in his straight-backed wooden chair as soon as the baron left.   
  
"Elizabeth," Governor Swann rubbed his lined forehead with his hand, leaning forward in his chair to rest against the edge of the desk, "you know my time is ebbing."   
  
She drew in a breath and her back straightened, as it did whenever he spoke of this matter.  
  
"You will come into fortune, as the sole heir of your mother's money and mine. You are young and unmarried--and have no aim of wedding someone who can manage these finances." He was seemingly repeating what had been said a few nights previous; and Elizabeth was growing wearied of the subject. He stood from the desk and made his way slowly to the bed, which he sat heavily upon and removed his wig. His gray hair was whiter, and the bald patches seemed to have grown. "I am entrusting your livelihood to him, that he might oversee my duties, then return you to England so that you might be in proper society once more."  
  
"I have no intention of leaving!" Elizabeth interjected hotly, her cheeks flushing red with the stifling heat of the room and her anger. "Will is perfectly able to oversee the manor, and it angers me that you think that just because I am a woman that I have no financial ability--"  
  
"But you don't, Elizabeth, and yes, being a woman does hinder--"  
  
"I do so, and being a woman doesn't make me of less wit than the next fellow," She voiced fiercely, not caring that her father's breathing was heavier, his back more hunched.   
  
"Did you ever have formal education? You haven't set foot inside even a finishing school, and a governess all your childhood who taught you reading, writing, and sums on a slate is not sufficient for the business world."   
  
Elizabeth looked down, her face still crimson, then met his eyes again, a spark of hope in hers. "Will is literate--he runs the blacksmith shop on his own now, and has an apprentice. He has business experience--"  
  
"William Turner is a simple craftsman with enough sense to know the price of sword or the quality of one kind of iron over another. He has no knowledge of handling a fortune or the trade of goods." He drew a feeble breath, "I am sorry." The governor leaned over and coughed into his handkerchief. Elizabeth quelled her tongue long enough to fetch the basin of herbs on the bureau and place it near him.   
  
He looked up, pity in his eyes. "I know you love the boy, my child. If I could give you the world and let you have your love, I would. However, that same world rarely allows true love to triumph and the hero to marry the lady." He leaned onto his pillows, and took a shallow breath, "Do as your uncle requests, for my sake, if not yours." He closed his eyes and slept, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest.   
  
She gazed upon him for a moment, then crossed the room and drew the curtains, closing out the bright sunlight and leaving the room dim and sweltering. Closing the door, she strode down the stairs quickly to where Will stood, wearing an irked expression. "The man here, Elizabeth, is he here for your father?"   
  
She nodded, as he continued, "He thought me here for my handiwork. I told him I was seeing you, but he thought my words false, and ordered me out. Pray tell me what sort of man commands a house that is not his?"   
  
Elizabeth sighed and took his hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing the fingers. "He is the Baron Montefiore, my mother's brother. He is 'overseeing' our affairs for the time being--and not just our expenses, either."   
  
Will's brow wrinkled. "What do you mean by that?"   
  
Elizabeth rose onto her toes and kissed his lips softly, then whispered against them, "They are trying to keep us apart, Will."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the wait. I hoped you liked this chapter as it is finally moving the story along. Remember, review, review, review. My inbox is VERY lonely. 


	4. No Intentions and Difficult Decisions

A/N: One little thing I just realized about my description of my vacation. I only went to the memorial procession in DC, I watched the funeral on television. Am honored, though that some thought I was invited personally to the funeral (don't know the Reagans :-). This chappy is mostly relationship stuff, but next chapter I think you'll really enjoy.  
  
-- I got back from Kadesh this morning; its a church camp at Abeline Christian University. I had an AWESOME time, u get to room in the dorms and have bible classes w/ people from other youth groups from all over. There was one girl on my hall from American Somoa (spelling?), which is an island near Tahiti. She has family in Austin, tho, so she comes over to the mainland every year. But anyway, here's chappy 4! Like said above, it's a little emotionally charged, but I guarantee to lighten the mood next update.   
  
Chapter 4  
  
Elizabeth saw Will to the door, where they shared a long, lingering kiss that seemed to affirm their resolve to gainsay their elders' wishes. He set off down the road with a contented attitude that rose an emotion in Elizabeth that she feared was anger. Perhaps it was because her father was dying and her world collapsing, and yet, he still kept his optimism. Her forehead creased in frown, then smoothed as she smiled. Will made her happy--she forgot the problems she was facing when she was with him.   
  
She shut the door quietly and strode to where she faced the door of the office, hearing the rustling of papers beyond it. Drawing a breath, she entered. Her uncle sat at the gilded desk full of papers and notices that was her father's pride. Three miniature portraits sat in gold frames near the porcelain inkwell: one of her mother on her wedding day, one of the Swann family where Elizabeth was a small child, and the third was new; a likeness of King George in military dress, his chin held high pontifically.   
  
"Your father isn't the shrewd businessman he claims to be," was Baron Montefiore's greeting.   
  
Elizabeth swallowed and replied, "What do you mean?"   
  
He bent over a sheaf of vellum and squinted at the small figures written there in her father's neat script. "He pays the servants an inappropriate amount, even when all the plantation owners on the island keep slaves."   
  
"He doesn't agree with the practice. He won't keep the plantation owners from traditions practiced for two hundred years, but he will not follow their example." She countered, running her tongue over her teeth in agitation; conversing with her uncle left a sour taste in her mouth.   
  
"Yes, well, there is always room for change." He said, more to himself than to her. He looked up, severe brow resting on stern eyes. "That boy in the hall impudently claims to be courting you, Miss Swann. I sent him away, but if he is street riffraff loitering about the manor--"   
  
"You didn't, and he is. He is the local blacksmith." She said firmly, looking strait into his eyes and seeing an indifference that startled her. He drew a breath and returned to looking at her with a most austere and aghast expression.   
  
"That is most indecorous. I do not see how I expect to put you in with English society and get you married off if you have been rendezvousing with peasants." He stood from his chair and glared down his sharp nose. "And furthermore, you put yourself in danger by keeping company with his like. He was not born to have honor."   
  
"I don't believe bloodlines should have anything to do with honor or marriage." Elizabeth declared even more resolutely, taking steps towards the desk.   
  
The baron _tsked_ in pity. "Poor, poor girl. You have been raised without a mother or proper gentlewoman to show you the correct ways of these matters." He sighed irritably, "Your aunt will have much lost time to retrieve."   
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"I will not be taking you to Montefiore manor." He admonished another severe gaze in her direction. "I have no time to look after demoiselles. Lord White will keep you alongside his daughters in England."   
  
"I have no intentions of leaving!" Elizabeth nearly shouted, clutching her dress in fury.   
  
"Intentions of leaving? Dear girl, what would your intentions account for?"  
  
Caught off-guard, Elizabeth's eyes widened. "What?"  
  
"Has your breeding been so uncouth that I must explain these matters to you?" He looked down through his spectacles and began organizing the papers scattered about the desk's surface.   
  
"Matters?" She inquired, feeling irked, angered, and perplexed at once.   
  
He gave another irritated sigh and continued without a passing glance, "A woman obeys her elders, her husband, the government, and the church. When she is old, she obeys her sons. She raises children and attends social gatherings. She is remembered as 'loving mother and wife' --nothing extravagant, nothing exceptional."   
  
He stood and cast her a hard look. "If I ever hear of you cavorting with common street boys again I can assure you that he consequences will be most severe."   
  
"Don't you even care what I think?" Elizabeth asked breathlessly, though knowing the answer.  
  
"No one cares what women think." He dismissed, "Thinking of odd sorts is dangerous. You can think of what color a dress should be or when to hold the next banquet. If women go around thinking too much they end up actresses." He said the last word with a shudder.   
  
"WILL CARES WHAT I THINK." Elizabeth clamored, her breath hissing in her teeth.   
  
"I am not going to shout at a lady, but if you are going to act like a misbehaving schoolgirl, I shall." He said quietly in a voice that made her see red as she tried and failed to calm her anger. "You don't know what is best for you. Now leave, I cannot waste time conversing with a woman who disobeys her elders."   
  
Elizabeth stormed from the room and out the door, her steps taking her in a direct line to the blacksmith's shop.   
  
Will stopped by the blacksmith's shop on his way home to see that the fire was out properly and that his dinner with Elizabeth was cleaned up and put away. The sun was due to set in an hour and he was beginning to think keenly of bed and meal. He locked the door and set off towards the clusters of thatched cottages where his home was situated. Turning into an alleyway, he came to the narrow wooden door that led into the two-room house that Mr. Brown had furnished and leased to him in return for longer hours and lower wage. Those days were gone now, but he still lived there, perhaps because it was the only thing he knew.  
  
Stepping inside, he grimaced at the wall of dark that greeted him. Christopher had stayed out late at the tavern again and let the fire go out. The boy had come to live there for his apprenticeship, and was assigned the lowly chores of the house that Will felt he was old and experienced enough to shirk. He groped about for a candle and flint. Finding it, he lit a single low yellow taper and squinted about the dimness for tinder and wood.   
  
Elizabeth arrived at the shop, yanking on the latch to find it locked. She knocked tentatively on the door, then slumped. Will had gone home, and she had never been allowed nor had the interest of going into the neighborhoods where taverns were at every street corner and harlots roamed the streets. Glancing at the twilight sky she bit a lip. She would have to be under a safe roof soon, as it was precarious for a lady to be out and about unaccompanied at this time of day, and she had no interest of going home.   
  
Closing her eyes she wracked her memory for anything Will might have mentioned about his home. Opening them, she frowned. The only thing Will had ever said about his home was that he despised the neighborhood and wished he had a bit more sunlight. She gathered her skirts and set off for the slums--it was the only place she could think of where the neighborhood was rough and crowded.   
  
Despite how quickly she walked, she found that the remnants of twilight were a despairingly thin line low on the horizon and still she had not found his residence. She felt that she had wandered about the same dirty street for hours now. She bumped into a wiry figure and started, finding that it was harlot leaning against a stone wall. The woman cursed and stalked away. Shaken, Elizabeth set off at a faster pace down an alleyway, her heart thumping wildly.   
  
She rounded countless corners and met filthy dead ends; crunching rat bones under her heels, she set off in a different direction, trying not be ill from the stench of the place. She was vaguely wondering why she had had the nerve to come to such a place when another figure met her stumbling, but this one was burlier and held her wrists in one hand. The other pressed to her mouth to keep her from screaming. He pulled her from the alleyway to a narrow door through which a dim light flickered, and closed it behind them. He released her and she backed away; the figure's face was still in shadow. She found the candle, from which the flickering light came, and held it up, a familiar set of eyes and mouth swimming into view.   
  
"Will!"   
  
Will closed the space between them, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, then taking the candle from her hand and placing it upon the mantle. "What brings you here at his hour?"   
  
Elizabeth, still recovering from the shock of believing for an instant that she was to be the next victim of a murderer, glared. "You frightened me, Will."   
  
He looked down in slight embarrassment. "I apologize. You startled me and I thought you a woman with.... Different intentions." He shrugged and looked up with a renewed smile. "I was fetching wood for the fire." Taking her hands, he kissed the back of her palms, then lowering them from his lips, repeated, "Why are you here?"   
  
"I... needed to see you." She returned still feeling slightly flustered. She settled herself stiffly in a chair at the lean wooden table. Will moved away from her to the hearth, where his first armload of wood lay. There was scant enough for lasting warmth, but he kindled a blaze quickly, filling a kettle with water and placing it over the first pale tongues of flame. He remained silent, listening as she told him of her troubles.   
  
He was beside her as she finished, feeling the need to thaw the cold her spirit seemed to have taken, to breath into her the life she'd had a fair few weeks ago. He placed a hand gently on her cheek, small words of comfort on his lips. "I know nothing of the need for you to be refined, of this uncle from afar, or of the anxious haste to depart for England, but I can tell you that I respect and love the woman you are, and that you should value that, if nothing else."   
  
His other hand he placed upon the shoulder opposite her cheek, and bent to claim her lips, but she turned away, still wishing to speak. "Spare me poetic words."  
  
Will stopped, perplexed. "How have I offended you?" She did not answer, eyes probing his features reproachfully.   
  
At length she drew a breath and spoke; "I will not be subdued by pretty words, not spoken to as if my emotions were petty and my concerns trivial. I thought you superior to that."   
  
"I do not think that!" He interjected, stunned.  
  
"I-I know. I've just had men patronizing me for the better part of the day--" She broke off, deeming it a sufficient apology.   
  
Will shook his head, still disconcerted. "If it satisfies you better, I will say that you merit better, and ask the question of what I could do to alter the situation."   
  
She bequeathed him a long stare, then swayed her head slightly. " No," she said deliberately, "if you do not know, I give you time to discover it." She smiled, "Only because I delight in challenging you."   
  
Will felt his confidence renew, and bent to demand her lips once more; this time she conceded. Elizabeth allowed the kiss to tarry and deepen, before she broke it and embraced him. Will felt his pulse quicken as he held her. Stealing a glance at her bent head, he looked at her not only as a man looks at a woman in the aspect of pleasure, but also at what a beautiful individual she was to him; how the vehement spirit within her offset the scrupulous, reputable personage he was.   
  
He pressed a few kisses to her forehead, then to her lips. She participated for a few moments, then unexpectedly deterred, and sighed, leaning her head against his chest. He freed one hand from the depths of her hair to rest it on her back.   
  
"Life is at a standstill." She murmured, almost to herself.  
  
Will untangled himself from her, to peer into the flickering nadir of her eyes, his left eyebrow cocked in question.  
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
"I feel...neither here nor there. In twilight--not in light nor in darkness." She paused, as if spreading her thoughts over vellum to hold them up to the light and examine them. "I am not married... or betrothed, for that matter. I prepare myself for my father's death and yet he still lives. Outside forces are telling me my home lies elsewhere, but my heart lies in neither place." She took a breath and let her shoulders slump, worrying her bottom lip in agitation.   
  
"People have always told me what to do--but I never obeyed them, because I had other plans for myself. Lately I find myself in the same situation, but... but." Her eyes searched and found his, adhering to them and holding on tensely. "But I find I have no plans for myself this time." She drew a breath and closed her eyes.  
  
Her words dropped a weight into Will's stomach, something he found to his dismay to be guilt. She expected something, perhaps. He could not discern what, though; be it an act, a word, an emotion--there were many possibilities. Almost absentmindedly he raked his fingers through her hair, feeling inapt of how to comfort this particular quandary for her.   
  
"Say something, Will." She muttered softly into his collar.   
  
"What shall I say?" He inquired somewhat stoically.   
  
"Something--anything. Perhaps that I have no reason to despair. That you think me strong when really I feel weak--Lie to me, if to serve the purpose of lifting this burden from my shoulders." She pulled slightly from his grasp, with bitterness in her movements that alarmed him.   
  
"Shall I say that despite these trials you will triumph? That things will turn for the better? I know not; do not request what I am unable to give," He paused, seeing the hurt in her eyes. "But come, you are wearied, and I feel that this is something a night's rest will cure."   
  
She averted her eyes from him, and turned to look into the dying firelight; the blaze glinted in her pupils and cast odd shadows into the hollow places in her face, making her expression difficult to read. There was a heavy silence, until the whistling of the kettle brought Will to a more aware state, and he quickly fetched two tumblers from the scant cupboard and prepared the tea.   
  
Placing the steaming drink before her, he did not take his eyes from Elizabeth's profile as she continued her gaze into the hearth, finding his heart to be pulsing a disconcerting rhythm in his chest. He gave a great sigh and raised his voice ever so slightly. "What would you have me do, Elizabeth?" He inquired the earlier query.   
  
She turned her head calmly and looked across the table to him. "I cannot tell you."   
  
"Why not?" He blurted, struggling to keep himself in check.  
  
"It--it's not something that can be asked of a person," She labored to find the correct words, her cheeks flushing. "It's something that... is learned, is decided in one's own heart."   
  
Will ran a frustrated hand through his locks, the other gripping the table agitatedly. "Then how can you expect something of that nature of a person? Not everything is obvious to me." He took a breath and steadied himself, taking the few steps to her side, where he clasped her in strong arms. "But do not worry on such matters. Just to know that I will always endeavor to be by your side--is that not something to trust in?"   
  
She did not answer him, but held fast, her head on his breast once more, taking in deep, calming breaths. "Forgive me, Will," She said quietly at long last, "just... take me home, please."   
  
"Certainly." He said softly, gathering her in his arms and proceeding to the doorway.   
  
Before leaving her safely at her doorstep, he cupped her chin in one hand and raised her eyes to his. "Remember the kings in the silk halls." He pressed one more kiss to her lips, then released her, watching her shadow as it slipped through the narrow chink of light cast by the ajar door; it disappeared into the house with near a whisper, leaving him feeling much more alone than he supposed she felt.   
  
A/N: Review! I think I am going to have a lot of fun writing the next chapter! 


	5. Several Inches Too Short

A/N: I really liked writing this chapter. I know it doesn't move the plot along very much, but I prefer to do that stuff like every other chapter or so. Besides, this chapter serves as a foil for English society, which I think is necessary to destinguish it further from colonial socity. Enough literary rambling, on with Chapter 5!!  
  
Chapter 5  
  
Elizabeth grumbled when she was awoken early from her bed, the scent of porridge unappealing in the precocious hours as the warm sheets were made up. "What gives reason to wake me so early?" She asked grumpily as she washed her face in the uncomfortably cold water in the basin.   
  
"His Lordship, the Baron, has received invitation to an occasion at a plantation on the other side of the island." One of the maids replied, uncovering a long box from its place on the table near the door. She hefted its weight into her arms and brought it to Elizabeth, who removed the cover wearily.   
  
Soft 'oh's escaped the mouths of the watching maidservants as the extravagant dress was revealed in the box's depths. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. Was it just she, or was the waist on this gown even smaller than the one her father had last insisted she wear to the promotion ceremony? Even more layers of brocade and frill descended down the skirt, and the bell of the sleeves was made of the most delicate of lace. "How beautiful, Miss!" Remarked the maid who still held the box.  
  
"To some." Elizabeth said curtly. She raised her eyes from the ridiculous item and inquired, "Surely this occasion will take place later in the evening. Who required my presence at this hour?"   
  
"His lordship wished to see you."   
  
She found him taking breakfast in the dining hall, sitting at the head of the table using the best china the household had to offer. He was already in full dress, with powdered wig brushed and smoothed to perfection. He took a precise sip from the fingernail-thin porcelain cup then set it upon the table and looked up as Elizabeth entered the room.   
  
"I presume you slept well." He said curtly, not sparing her another glance as he continued on his meal and pored over some papers.   
  
Without answering him, Elizabeth sat in the chair at the end of the table, her eyes flitting to a smooth vellum card at his right hand.   
  
"I also infer the servants have informed you of our solicitation to the assemblage this eve?" He droned, now breaking a biscuit into small pieces and spreading an even amount of butter and jam onto each as he ate them.   
  
She pursed her lips and laced her fingers in her lap, one foot tapping in irritation. "May I query as to whom is hosting the event?" She asked passively.   
  
"Master Emerson, and his sons." He looked up, casting her a cool gaze. "I will not be accompanying you. I have other matters of state to attend." His eyes narrowed slightly, taking on an admonishing hint. "This is your opportunity to show that you are a lady and can behave as such. If I contrive to put you into English society, you must sparkle in colonial company." With that, he folded his papers and exited.   
  
Elizabeth sighed in frustration, her shoulders drooping as the heavy tension left them. She had to see Will. I had only been a night since he had left her at the doorstep, but she felt her heart warming more and more to the paltry and dingy life he led; she found happiness in those things as her love of silver and lace faded. Thinking of their argument, she winced. Perhaps the day had tried her patience so much that it was the cause of her shortness with him. She shook her head mentally; she expected too much. She gathered her skirts and made for the entrance hall, hoping to make fast time to reach the blacksmith shop before the fire was ready for heating the steel.   
  
Elizabeth was halfway to the shop when she realized that she was still in her long audience gown and thick-heeled shoes. Not wishing to double back and change into her regular slippers and frock, she merely gathered her skirts in the back and tucked them into her bodice, then held her shoes in her hand and slipped off her stockings to as not to ruin them, and set off again.   
  
The flagstones were cool and rough beneath her bare feet, and Elizabeth walked along the road with renewed vigor. How wonderful to be young and in love! At long last she reached the shop and brusquely pushed open the door.   
  
Christopher was in the back fetching raw steel, and Will was pumping air into a bed of coals on the hearth. It was a tiring job, and a hot one; he had already removed his shirt and had it tied loosely at his waist, hair swept back into a messy knot. Finally, the coals were at the right temperature, and he turned around at the sound of the door closing to find Elizabeth there.   
  
She stood a little ways beyond the anvil and workbench, eyeing him distractedly. She had removed her shoes and stockings, and had her dress hitched in the back to reveal several inches of bare ankle and lower calf. Her feet were a little large for the current fashion, but still narrow, pale and beautiful. He wasn't aware of his staring until he felt her eyes boring into him.   
  
She, of course, was taking in the sight of his smooth, muscled torso that faintly glistened. His eyes were running from the smoke and dust, giving him a look of alluring temptation. Elizabeth drew in a breath and closed her eyes, willing them to stop devouring the sight before them. When she opened them, Will had put his shirt on, the buttons undone, and had crossed the room to wrap his arms about her waist, fiddling with the back of her dress. The tucked-up skirts fell to their proper place about her ankles. He reached up, kissed her softly, then stood back as if to admire her properly.   
  
"What is the reason for your early visit?" He asked with a smile.   
  
"I thought I might ask a favor." Elizabeth returned the smile, fixing a stray hair behind his ear.   
  
"Continue." He took the back of her hand and laid small kisses on each knuckle.  
  
"There is to be an occasion at the Emerson plantation this evening. The baron wishes me to attend alone, but I have not seen the Emerson's in a number of years, and might feel alienated at such an event." She said slowly, pausing for his reaction.   
  
"Oh?" His face was passive.  
  
"Well... I had hoped you might be my escort."   
  
That afternoon Elizabeth was gowned in the extremely uncomfortable and ridiculous dress, and handed into the coach with difficulty, as she could barley move in the item. She directed the coachman to pull up outside the blacksmith shop, and a groom rapped on the door. Will stepped out, arrayed in his finest coat and cloak. The feathered hat sat jauntily on smoothly washed and brushed hair. He sat across from her in the coach, reaching to grasp her hand as soon as the door closed.   
  
"Need I say that you look lovely, as always?" Was on the tip of his tongue, but as he saw her shallow breaths, he said instead, "How tight did they have to lace you into this one?"   
  
She took another shallow breath, finding herself unable to answer. Wordlessly, she turned around in her seat, and pointed to the back of her dress, where a line of buttons ran down the spine of the gown. He hesitantly reached up and undid the top button; receiving no negative response, he quickly undid all the buttons to her waist, revealing the stays of a particularly nasty-looking corset; one with thin whalebone bands that sculpted her ribs and stomach to the 'perfect' shape. He clumsily undid the stays and laces, hearing her sigh of relief as she was freed from the contraption.  
  
"Thank you." She said breathlessly, as he buttoned only one button on the back to hold the dress up. She turned around in the seat and smiled, drawing a book from the depths of a pocket. "I brought one of my books about the East." She flipped through the creamy pages, until she found the desired one, and pointed to a brown drawing on it. "This one's called a panda. They lived in the high mountains, alone. See the teeth--" She pointed at the intricately-drawn incisors in the yawning panda's mouth. "They look suited to hunting meat, but in truth, they are harmless and devour leaves."   
  
Will's dark eyes pored over the page, while literate, he struggled with many of the larger words, so instead admired the beautiful drawings. Drawings that seemed to paint a picture of a place of riches, free of the restraints of English life, and utterly far and away from all things known and accepted.   
  
The trip to the Emersons' took two hours by coach, and it was dark when they pulled up alongside a grand plantation manor. Will had re-laced the corset and done up the back of the dress by the time the groom opened the door; he stepped out, offering Elizabeth his hand. She took it, proceeded off the small steps of the coach, and linked her arm with his. Together they made their way to a queue leading into the manor.   
  
Entering the house, Elizabeth was descended upon by numerous old friends and members of the Port Royal gentry. She was deciding how best to introduce Will as a respectable escort when a shrill voice pierced the air. "Elizabeth!" A short, rosy-looking girl pushed her way through the crowd, two boys of the same coloring in tow.   
  
Elizabeth smiled at the threesome before her, her hand, which had been clutching Will's tightly, eased and she made to embrace the other girl and her brothers. "Charlotte, it's been ages!" She glanced up and down the other boys, one who was a year Charlotte's senior, the other a year her junior. "Louis, you certainly have grown." She said to the younger, then to the elder, "Since when did you have a mustache, Fred?" The two eyed Will with interest.   
  
"Who's your friend, Beth?" Fred asked, moving to shake Will's hand.   
  
"William Turner." Fred released Will's hand, and from the way he moved his thumb across his palm, one could tell he found the young man's hand unusually rough for anyone who would court Elizabeth.   
  
"And where do you hail from, Mr. Turner?"   
  
"Originally, England."   
  
Louis chuckled. "Don't we all?"   
  
Will shifted uncomfortably, looking around for Elizabeth to find that she had gone. Fred nudged him. "He means, what bloodline?"  
  
"Oh." Will fished about for a suitable answer. "Well, you wouldn't know it--"   
  
"Not German, are you?" Louis suddenly inquired, a hot look coming to his eyes.   
  
"Ah," Will again cast about for answers.  
  
"Us Englishmen thought we'd never see the end of it when that Scottish line took the throne. Now Hanover has to up and claim kingship--"  
  
"It's bloody insulting." Fred inserted enthusiastically.   
  
"I'm not of a German family." Will managed.  
  
As the young men exchanged 'pleasantries', Charlotte had taken Elizabeth aside. "You certainly have done a lot of growing up since I last saw you. Who was the young man?" She inquired breathlessly, her pale blue eyes shining with the vigor of the party and the excitement of stumbling across her old friend.   
  
"He is William, a--" Elizabeth was sure Charlotte would be untroubled about Will's profession, as she had been wont to several teenage infatuations of merchants' sons, but nonetheless, she paused before, "He's a blacksmith I'm seeing."   
  
"Trusting your father doesn't bank on dashingly good looks, what has he had to say about all of this?" Charlotte and Elizabeth walked out onto the verandah that wrapped around the entire house, enjoying the cool, slightly pineapple-scented breeze off the sea.   
  
"At the beginning, he tolerated it. Lately he has had a.... A change of mood, so to speak." Elizabeth couldn't bring herself to mention the governor's illness; it was like revealing an ignominy. She took a shallow breath; Will had had to lace the corset back up tightly to be able to button the dress.  
  
"Mind, that dress looks painful. Would you like to change?"   
  
Glad for the change of subject, Elizabeth followed Charlotte back into the house and up the stairs to a spacious bedroom. She sat on the bed as Charlotte fished through her wardrobe for a gown apt for the event but less coercive.   
  
She emerged from the wardrobe with a light blue frock and handed it to Elizabeth, then perched on the edge of the bed. "It seems more than the six years it has been since we were clear-eyed thirteen-year-olds running between the pineapple plants." She began, an amiable smile gracing her soft features. "I don't get around the capital much anymore. How is the city?"   
  
Elizabeth began undressing as she spoke, "It is probably similar to your memories. The Fort is still the principle item of entertainment, besides the odd debutante coming out in the summer, most of the lads work at either the dock or the shops, and dear Norrington is away much of the year after pirates."   
  
"Ooh, I had heard of an incursion on the port. There was a hearsay that you had been taken, but surely it was just flustered gossip, because here you are alive and well."   
  
Elizabeth grinned slightly. "You affront my rescuers."   
  
Charlotte's eyes grew wide. "You're not saying--"  
  
"Yes. I was taken, and yes, it was a grand adventure."   
  
"You have always loved adventure. My memories are filled with visions of you as a child, telling tales of knights and of Africa and the like." She smiled widely, "It must have been your daydreams come to life to be taken by a pirate ship and live to tell the tale." She stood and helped Elizabeth button up the back of the dress, then inquired, "How do I know that what you say is true?"   
  
Elizabeth wordlessly extended her hand to show the white scar that stretched across her palm. "You will find that Will has a similar scar compliment to said exploit."  
  
They sat at the foot of Charlotte's bed as Elizabeth poured out the story of fierce sea battles, desert islands, cursed treasure, and two pirate captains at odds with the other.   
  
As Elizabeth finished the tale, she glanced in Charlotte's full-length mirror near the bed, and chuckled to herself. "It's a little short." The hem of the gown was a good three inches shorter than Elizabeth's petticoats, revealing lacy white layers beneath the blue garment.   
  
Charlotte shared in the laugh. "It won't matter. I think Fred and Louis have something planned that will not raise eyebrows at short hems."   
  
Will had managed to convince Charlotte's brothers that he was not German and nobility without mentioning a specific name when Fred nudged his brother and indicated the surrounding crowd. Ladies in ridiculous skirts tittered in high-pitched voices and men in find brocade jackets shared endless glasses of brandy. "I estimate it is time to attend a real soiree, eh Louis?"   
  
"Quite right. I expect Charlotte will be about soon as well." Louis turned his eyes on Will. "Come along, Mr. Turner." Bewildered, Will followed the two young men to the back of the house, where Louis collected an indistinguishable bundle and the three exited through a door near the kitchens.   
  
The moon was waning, but it cast a fair amount of light upon the tangle of ferns and palm trees that extended from the house's back porch. A narrow path was lit with dappled moonlight, and it was upon this path that Will followed Fred and Louis.  
  
A few moments later Elizabeth and Charlotte left the house and trotted the sandy trail, Elizabeth sharing the same bewilderment as Will. After about ten minutes she began to hear faint strains of music, but it was music wild and foreign to her ears. She and Charlotte came upon a scene that immediately reminded her of her night with Jack Sparrow upon the beach, except that then, there had been only the flow of the tides that offered music to the excursion.   
  
Two black men sat in the outer reaches of the light a roaring bonfire cast, one with a wooden flute, the other with a skin drum. On the other side of the fire a blanket was spread out upon the ground, bearing several bottles of brandy and ale, some fruit, a hunk of cheese, and a steaming side of boar she suspected was meant to be the centerpiece of the banquet back at the plantation house.   
  
"'Lizbeth, Charlotte!" Louis pranced up to the two young women, his shirttails untucked and his shoes and stockings removed. "We were wondering when you two sparrows might arrive."   
  
"You should be ashamed Louis; you too, Frederick. Stealing your father's best boar and leaving your own gathering, you have no honor. I had thought those years with the East India Company would have established some sense of accordance in you." She admonished, realizing she sounded remarkably like her father.   
  
"_'Some sense of accordance in you_.'" Louis mimicked, taking a swig from the brandy he held in one hand. "Brighten up, Lizzie. A few years ago you would have been delighted to be swept away from such a tedious affair. I certainly hope it wasn't bloody William here who ruined you." He indicated Will, who was hovering outside of the firelight, still in full dress and clutching the hilt of his sword as if in assurance.   
  
Charlotte had already abandoned Elizabeth to converse with Fred, who was encouraging the musicians to pick up a livelier tune. When the drumbeat quickened and the flutist picked up a song consisting of major intervals, Fred joined Louis in surveying the scene before them. "Hmm, three men and two women. This won't do." He disappeared along the trail to remedy the situation.   
  
Louis gave an irked expression Will's way then swung his sister about her waist, "Dance, Charlotte!" He said in a singsong voice, and pranced about the fire in an awkward skipping-like step, taking occasional swigs from the brandy. Elizabeth strode towards Will, her temporary propriety gone and a light of mischief kindled in her eyes.   
  
"Is this common for sons of a plantation owner?" Will asked incredulously, indicating the black musicians and prancing Louis, whose heels were being kicked by a giggling Charlotte.   
  
"It is for these sons." Elizabeth replied, amused. "We used to do this once a week when I visited as a child, but I'll admit, it does seem quite bizarre for adults." She removed his hat and cloak, but he seemed not to notice as he still ogled the Emersons' behavior.   
  
"They have always been a bit, ah, removed form normal society. Their father spoiled them with slaves and money, and their mother was a social butterfly with no time for children. Their governess could not corral their behavior completely, but they did learn to at least behave in society." She paused and thought of the two boys in particular. "Fred and Louis were put in with the East India Company when their mother died and their stepmother decided that enough was enough. It seems to me that all that has been acquired are outlandish dances and talented slaves."   
  
Will looked down as Elizabeth unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and removed his vest. "What are you doing?"   
  
"Sit down." She commanded, trying to get at his shoes and stockings. He meekly obeyed. "I'm making you presentable."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"To properly enjoy the soiree that my friends have planned, of course. You can't dance in heels and will keel over with the heat with all the layers you have donned." Elizabeth chortled as she finished. Her own shoes and stockings were cast aside, and she picked up her skirts to follow Charlotte and Louis about the fire.   
  
Urgent murmuring and loud laughs were coming from the trail. Fred emerged with a flustered, young housemaid about the waist, who was clasping her hands and looking half-amused and half-dismayed. "But master Frederick, I have five chickens on the spit and cook's orders to scrub the cellar afterwards. I can't be frolickin' now about the fire and get me skirts all up in a bunch." She pleaded as Fred smartly removed her apron and cap and spun her towards the fire.   
  
"Have some brandy, Marguerite!"   
  
Will watched the troupe as they spun and skipped about the bonfire; Louis getting drunker by the minute and stumbling, Charlotte's cheeks becoming rosier and her breaths short, Elizabeth laughing and enjoying herself, and Fred dragging the docile Marguerite along while taking Louis's brandy and having a drink himself. He bit a lip as he found himself at a decision: should he join them in their excited gambol, or be the respectable one and douse the fire? He came to a resolution when Elizabeth averted her eyes from following her feet to gaze at him with mirth in them that reflected the crackling blaze. They were inviting and slightly enticing, drawing something from within him that pushed aside his infernal decency.   
  
He was hardly aware of himself leaping to his feat and running to her side, taking her hand and following her steps as she laughed all the more. The flames were scorching and warming him in a way that the hearth in the blacksmith shop did not. A yell escaped his lips and it mingled with the high notes of the flute and the laughs of the women. Fred and Louis quickly followed with war cries they had learned from their travels along the African coast. The drum rhythm pounded in his ears and created a wild duet with his heartbeat. He slipped his arm about Elizabeth's waist and swung her about, and her laugh changed to one of surprise and delight. His other hand caught hers and he improvised an Irish jig he had seen performed by a seaman long ago.   
  
Fred and Louis took Charlotte and Marguerite and followed suit, Fred exclaiming, "You can dance, William?" Louis, in his intoxicated state, was treading all over Charlotte's feet and muddling up the steps. The song continued for a few moments more and Will found him slipping further away from himself as he danced with Elizabeth, his spirit arrested in firelight, her closeness, and the drumbeat.   
  
He stumbled a bit when the music took an abrupt turn for a slower tempo, and the woman in his arms pushed her hands against his chest to steady him. "Enough Will, that was wonderful. Where did you learn it?" She said in short gasps, leaning her head against his shoulder.   
  
"When I was very young, I think. Shortly before I left England." He himself was breathless, and not only from the exercise.   
  
Hours later, the moon was high in the sky and the food on the blanket had long been devoured. Fred had finally released Marguerite to the kitchens, but not before getting a good measure of ale and brandy into her. She had staggered off with rosy cheeks, humming the night's music to herself rather loudly.   
  
The bonfire had burned itself down to mostly embers and small sticks. The light was considerably lower and Elizabeth rested against Will's frame tranquilly. His arms were about her, as she was shivering slightly in the aftermath of perspiring from the dancing then being blown on by a cool wind from the sea. Charlotte was sleeping with most of the blanket pulled over her, and Louis was creating a racket snoring as he slept off the brandy.   
  
Will was remembering how enticing Elizabeth had looked as she danced about the fire, her hair run with the red and gold lights of the fire and her eyes smoldering in her flushed face. There was a beauty there not seen often. Something inside all the petticoats and brocade and lace, something not hidden away beneath a bonnet or an apron.   
  
"Elizabeth?" He murmured, giving her drowsy state a small shake.   
  
"Hmm." She replied, yawning and opening her eyes. "Yes?"   
  
Without answering, he bent down and covered her mouth with his, giving her the nicest awakening of her life up to that point. She raised up from her sprawled position to meet his kiss with fervor. She leaned her chest onto his as the kiss deepened and the hand that was not supporting them reached up and cupped her cheek. Will didn't much like touching her one-handed, so as he removed the support they fell backward with a small oomph, Elizabeth now on top of Will and their legs tangled. She did not find that a very appropriate position and raised up on her elbows to look down at his face in a feigned arraigning glare.   
  
With a shrug, Will flipped her onto her back and leaned his torso over hers, but keeping their lower bodies an ample distance apart. He closed the distance between their faces quickly, administering a wet kiss at the spot where jaw, neck, and earlobe met. Elizabeth gasped at the gesture, her heart pounding as he trailed down her neck and back up to her jaw. He met her mouth once more and there he remained until Elizabeth pushed herself up from beneath him, her cheeks aflame.   
  
"I was almost asleep." She chided, not able to conceal her delectation.   
  
Will laughed merrily. "You think I would let you sleep without a goodnight kiss?"   
  
Elizabeth mumbled under her breath as they resumed their earlier position, though she certainly did not need his arms for warmth any longer.   
  
It was near dawn when the carriage pulled up outside the Swann mansion. Will was awakened by the abrupt stop, but Elizabeth still slept in his arms. He did not know whether he should take her into the house himself or allow the groom to do so. Her uncle had made it clear that he did not want the young man near his niece or the house again. Taking his chances, he gathered Elizabeth in his arms as the groom opened the carriage door and inquired to a maid as the entered the manor. "Pray tell me, does the Baron sleep?"   
  
The maid yawned and nodded. "Aye, he does."  
  
Pleased, Will carried her up the stairs to what he guessed was her bedroom, judging from the lengths of white lace on the canopy bed and array of jewelry at the dressing table. He laid her gently on the bed, giving one last glance her way, then exiting. Coughs were sounding from another room, and he peeked through a crack in the doorway to see the governor in his sickness. Will's heart filled with remorse for Elizabeth; it was no wonder things had been off-color between them lately.   
  
When Will finally left, the maids rushed into the bedroom to prepare her bath and breakfast, though no one remarked that she had come home in a completely different gown and state than when she had left it. Her hair was down, her corset, shoes, and stockings gone, and the blue frock was several inches too short.   
  
A/N: Read it? Review it! I want to freeze up my email account by filling it up w/ reviews. They really inspire you to write faster and make longer chapters. 


	6. Love Comes in Many Forms

A/N: Guess what?! Since I have been gone to camps and vacation and stuff so much this summer, we're canceling my last camp, which was supposed to be next week, meaning I have another week to write before drill team camp starts (after which follows band camp... no jokes, please)! After that I have a week of two-a-days where I can write. Sad thing is, I have to use this weekend and next week to finish 3 books... so it might not be such a good thing..... Anyway, here's chapter 6! Enjoy!

P.S. THANKS A MILLION, DAYSTAR! Your reviews were so well thought-out and encouraging; I was sorry that you reveiwed anonymously; I really wanted to email you and thank you!   
  
Chapter 6  
  
While Will and Elizabeth were merry making at the plantation, the Baron Montefiore spent his afternoon on the streets of Port Royal, examining the state of affairs under his brother-in-law.   
  
He dismissed the coach and walked along the streets alone, his eyes wandering to the food stalls overrun with buyers, to the merchants delivering their wares to the shops. He heard the clang of metal from the silversmith, smelled the stench of not-quite-fresh meat from the butcher shop; and saw dirty street boys playing games in the alleys.   
  
He frowned; he had hoped to arrive and find things in need of repair and laws that needed changing, so that he might have something better to occupy his time than the affairs of his uncouth niece. As he walked he thought of this suitor that was calling upon her, this William Turner. While he seemed fair in the face enough, the baron could think of nothing that would draw Elizabeth to him; he was poor, dirty in all accounts as far as the baron was concerned, and with his line of work, should stay away in his shop, working at his trade.   
  
Yet Elizabeth was loyal to him--and loved him. And the baron needed to sever all of Elizabeth's ties to the colony if he were to transport her securely and easily to England. To simply force her onto the ship could prove disastrous; there was the possibility of escape or worse if she had it in mind to return to William. He squeezed his fist inside his pocket; he would break her spirit if it came to it! In his eyes she was a 2-year-old thoroughbred colt; bred to be elegant but hard to break of their feral habits.   
  
No, while she still held to William, she would not be broken. The key lay to the blacksmith himself, a key the baron was increasingly anxious to find. Casting his eyes from within, he glimpsed the spire of the Port Royal Chapel. Within minutes, he was at the steps of the sanctuary, pushing aside the heavy wooden doors and scanning the room for clergy. A priest was walking solemnly alongside a wall set with many ornate stained-glass windows that cast a myriad of colored lights onto the floor, dust motes winking and twinkling in the sun rays.   
  
"Father," the baron approached the cleric pretentiously, a hand at his chest in respect.   
  
"Your Grace," the priest nodded his head, continuing his stroll as the baron fell into step beside him, the baron's hands clasped behind his back.   
  
"I arrived yestereve from England with intentions to visit the governor and his household." He began, disliking smalltalk, but knowing full well its value on appropriate occasions.   
  
"I pray your trip was delivered safely by God's hand, was it not?"  
  
"We were blessed with fair seas and swift winds." He drew a breath; "I was meaning to inquire as to the attendance of services by the governor's household."   
  
The priest drew a long, contemplative breath, speaking slowly and softly in the manner accustomed to his kind. It was the tone of speech that easily frustrated the baron. "Of late the governor has been absent. I have inquired his daughter on this matter, but she insists nothing is amiss."  
  
"How often does Miss Swann attend?" He pressed while willing himself not to appear interrogative, but to keep his queries at gallantry.   
  
"Every morning of the Sabbath, rain or shine. She has been raised well by her tutors and elders."  
  
"I daresay she does not attend alone?"   
  
"Oh, no. Miss Swann is accompanied by a young man on most occasions; by a member of her household on others."   
  
The baron coughed unceremoniously. "A young man?"  
  
The priest turned and considered him. "You find this unseemly?"   
  
"In effect, yes. The governor has long felt it time for Miss Swann to wed, but this particular suitor is a dangerous and indecent match."  
  
The priest shook his head slightly; giving his long robes a rustle. "It is not my business to meddle in such affairs. But if it would appease your concern, I will pray on this matter." He cocked his head; the priest was still young, and his curiosity had not yet left him. "Though I might say that the man in question does not seem ungodly."  
  
"The matter has little to do with morals or godliness." The baron replied almost snappishly and, with a quick nod, he departed. The priest blinked, then continued his thoughtful stroll through the sanctuary, thinking he might say the prayer not for the seemingly God-fearing couple, but for their repudiating elder.  
  
Had the Baron Montefiore been of lesser breeding, he might have growled. He moved through the streets with long strides, not caring if carts or coaches had to veer out of his way. He had hoped to find that William Turner was an immoral peasant who kept Elizabeth away from church in his filthy blacksmith's shop, a man who kept her away from proper public events and raised eyebrows at their absence. It enraged him to discover that his only fault was his poverty, and as much as the baron would like to, he could not send William away simply because he was poor.   
  
No, the baron's best device was to keep the two apart by other means, and if he could keep the boy from muttering sweet nothings and encouragement's into his niece's ear, he could certainly convince her that it was in her best interests to leave the blacksmith be. The baron's task now was to find that device and put it to use as quickly as possible.  
  
Christopher watched his master dress in the back room of the shop with interest. He had never seen Master Turner in this situation before; Will was dropping things all over the room, mumbling to himself, and constantly re-adjusting his hat, which sported a large feather that made the apprentice sneeze just looking at it.   
  
"When will you be back?" The boy asked in a bored voice.   
  
Will tilted the hat upon his head at the same angle it had been a few minutes ago, frowning. With a shrug, he reached for his cloak, but it fell from his fingers as he remembered again that this was his first formal occasion with Elizabeth as her escort. What if he made everyone there blatantly aware of his profession? Would Elizabeth care--would her pompous fellows shun her for associating with his kind?   
  
He clenched his teeth as he willed himself to put these things from his mind and concentrate on being ready on time. The buckles of his boots hung about his ankles; he bent to affix them to their proper place, then located his cloak and managed to clasp it at his shoulders. Glancing at his appearance in the mirror, he groaned. He looked a proper buccaneer, and these were his only ceremonious raiment.   
  
"When will you be back?" Christopher asked again, louder.   
  
Finding himself at last, Will replied. "I suppose around dawn."  
  
His apprentice scowled, but Will didn't see as his back was turned. "What am I supposed to do for supper?"   
  
"There is a loaf of bread and some fish from noon." Will mumbled, forgetting that he had eaten the leftovers shortly before getting dressed.   
  
There was a smart rap on the shop door. Will hurried from the back room and joined Elizabeth in the carriage, leaving the piqued Christopher behind. The shop door closed, and the apprentice shoved his hands dejectedly in his pockets, shuffling over to the workbench where he and his master usually shared their meal. Only a white cloth bearing a few crumbs and bones rested there; the boy's scowl became more pronounced as he looked at the empty scrap and heard the hooves of the carriage fading away.   
  
He strolled the shadowy streets in a splenetic manner, kicking small stones, sniffing the air, and feeling his stomach growl whenever the scent of food wafted across his nose. He spied a well-dressed, solitary man taking the cobblestones in long strides, his wig slightly askew and lips pursed magisterially. His pockets also jingled with coins.   
  
Now, one might think Will's apprentice a shallow, simple-minded boy whose mind lay solely on his next meal. While that was the case most of the time, Christopher also had a deeply embedded dislike of those in higher places. He had been in and out of poorhouses and orphanages all his life, quickly discovering that the owners of said establishments were determined to convince all poor, hungry little urchins such as himself were unworthy of their charity, but got it anyway. He learned that those with jingling pockets of gold would rather see him thrown from the Tower than give him a meal or bath. Had Christopher remained in London and continued as a pickpocket and thief, he might have grown to be much worse than the minuscule criminal he was.   
  
Christopher was lucky enough that fate smiled on him one hot summer day at the London harbor, when a merchant vessel happened to be seeking a cabin boy. The Caribbean was just the place for Christopher. There was plenty of work for a boy, and ample sunshine to turn his pale, dirty-blonde pallor, to a healthy, rosy-cheeked youth. Sadly, he was dearly lacking in gratitude, having amounted his survival to wit and quick fingers. He felt he was cleverer than any noble, as who could be clever having every need and want of life served to them on a silver platter?   
  
Thus, when Will's apprentice spied the Baron Montefiore, he made up his mind to take a portion of the jingling gold in his pocket.   
  
The baron was still grumbling from his frustration at his dilemma when he felt a small body brush past him, the fingers lingering for a split second at his side. Displaying reflexes surprising for a man his age, he clamped one claw-like hand around the boy's thin arm and wrenched him from his flight. Surveying the pickpocket, he found him to be dressed too well to be an urchin from the streets, and certainly too well groomed either. His hair was washed, combed, and neatly tied with a strip of cloth, his shirt was tucked into knickers that sported only one patch at the knee, and had well-oiled shoes that looked second-hand.   
  
In one hand he held the baron's money back, the fingers clenched tight over the prize. His face bore traces of sullenness, but his eyes were currently wide and frightened. "You, boy, to whom do you belong?" He shook his head, lips pressed together.  
  
The baron gave his arm a violent shake; "I do not have the leisure for games. Tell me to whom you belong or I will send you directly to the fort prison!"  
  
"You can have your money back." The boy mumbled, holding the purse of gold out to him.   
  
"You fail to answer my question. To whom do you belong?" The baron demanded again.   
  
"Why?" The boy asked, viewing the baron with misgiving. "You have what is yours."  
  
The baron surveyed him quietly. "Tell me, and perhaps I will pardon your crime against me."   
  
The boy ran a tongue over his dry lips, a twinge of guilt rising in his stomach. "I am apprentice to the blacksmith, sir." He gave his arm a hopeful tug.  
  
However, the baron still held it in his viselike grip, a gleam coming to his jejune eyes. Wordlessly, he dragged the protesting youth along the cobblestones, eyes cast within. Here was his chance--his way of decrypting the puzzle of how to keep William Turner from Elizabeth. He was unaware of his nails digging into the boy's arm, ignoring the yelps as he dragged him along, his mind was calculating rapidly like so many gears and cogs. His mind was cast years back to another young boy who had dared to rob him...   
  
They had reached the governor's mansion. The boy was unceremoniously dragged indoors and the door shut smartly behind him. Reaching the now tidy office, the baron turned the key and led his captive inside. He released the boy's arm to turn the lock in the door, pocketing the key. He crossed the room to the desk, where he sat. The boy instantaneously ran to the door and tugged the latch in vain, eventually turning round and casting the baron a look of repugnance.   
  
"You lied." He spat, panting slightly, his voice cold.   
  
The baron granted him an equally disdainful glare, "Do not dare accuse me of such a transgression. I made no promises." He shuffled a few papers for effect, then looked up at the boy, who was pacing about the room, occasionally pausing to admire the finer decorations. "Cease that most bothersome activity." He admonished sharply. Closing the open ledger at the desk, he settled to the business at hand. "What is your name?"  
  
"Christopher." The boy answered dully, hands in his pockets.   
  
"Who are your parents?"  
  
"I have none."   
  
"So I presume you live with Mr. Turner in his establishment?" The baron asked, though it was more of a statement.   
  
Christopher merely nodded.   
  
"What kind of master is Turner?"   
  
The apprentice shrugged. "He is slow to anger, but hard to please. He treats me well enough," He paused, considering many other masters or orphanage directors of a much severe disposition, "He is kind."   
  
The baron gave a grunt, as though dissenting of the description of Will Turner as a kind master. "Surely he has been neglecting your instruction to his attentions."   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
"Perhaps Mr. Turner spends more of his time courting than teaching his trade?"   
  
Christopher shrugged again, his disposition passive. "He loves the governor's daughter, and devotes much consideration and time to her, but he has a priority to me likewise."   
  
Again, the baron gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. "But," He looked to the boy expectantly, "Do you feel any tenacious fidelity to him?"   
  
The boy's brow furrowed, his words slow. "I will not deny I enjoy my position and feel gratitude to Master Turner.... But I could easily find another apprenticeship."   
  
The baron nodded in approval. He withdrew the purse that Christopher had returned to him from his pocket, counting out a few crowns. He held the gold out to the apprentice, who stared at it with a mixture of astonishment and perplexity. The man was offering him more money than he had ever had in his life and just minutes before he had attempted to pickpocket him!   
  
"What would performing a favor of the utmost importance for me cost? Surely this is enough to compensate for any grievances it may cost you." He extended his arm further, the gold winking in the light of the single candle that was lit. Once Christopher was sure it was no trick, he pocketed the crowns, thrusting a hand into the same pocket so that his fingers might rub across their imprinted surfaces.   
  
"What sort of favor?"  
  
Elizabeth slept through the day, only vaguely remembering waking up to find herself in her own bed, and being fussed over by the maids. The blue frock was cast over the gilded tri-fold screen, as were her petticoats. A bowl of porridge rested on the table, and vats of steaming water were being poured into her china bathtub. "Miss Elizabeth, you look a fright!" Exclaimed her maidservant, tugging an ivory comb through her mistress's tangled locks. Elizabeth's eyes were too heavy and her limbs too sluggish to retort; she merely allowed herself to be led to the bath and thoroughly scrubbed and porridge forced down her throat. Within seconds of having her chemise tugged over her naked body, she fell face-forward onto her soft, silky pillows and was asleep instantly.   
  
When she awoke, it was four o'clock and her stomach was rumbling delicately. An underskirt and dress was laid out alongside her afternoon tea and biscuits. She refreshed herself, dressed, and made for the blacksmith's shop, humming a tune under her breath. Glancing to the heavens, she observed the thin sliver of a moon, pale against the blue enamel of the sky. Looking to the earth once more, she found that her feet had carried her to the shop door, which she pushed open.   
  
The shop was run with the golden lights of afternoon; the hearth was cold, and the air was still. She fretted for a moment, thinking it completely deserted, but she pricked her ears at stirrings in the back room. Will emerged, rubbing his eyes blearily and tousling the brown locks that hung loose about his face. He caught sight of Elizabeth, looking as though she had just awoken as well. Her hair was trailing down her back in ringlets, and she was gowned in the simplest of frocks, looking more like a housemaid than a governor's daughter. Will preferred the former guise, but somehow felt it did not suit her.   
  
He observed her eyes roving the shop. "It is too late in the day to begin any project." He stated, feeling an odd need to explain himself. The wild, insouciant feeling he had entertained the previous night had long left him, and was unsure if their relationship had changed-hopefully, Elizabeth would not expect anything new of him simply because he acted of a new character on one occasion. "Would you like to walk?" He inquired finally, extending a hand.   
  
Her warm smiled graced her lips as she slid her hand into his rough one, the contented feeling of being well rested and loved filling her. They walked along the cobblestone streets; chickens fluttering out of their way, old men smoking pipes and speaking in rough voices, children playing on their doorsteps as mothers swept the day's dust from their houses, and young men at the taverns enjoying themselves added to the balmy environment.   
  
It was some time before either of them spoke; it seemed Will, too, was enjoying the contented and slightly lazy ether that held Elizabeth's attention. "Where are we going?" She asked at length as they came to the edge of the town.   
  
Will shrugged. "Wherever our feet take us, I suppose."   
  
"I really enjoyed last night." Elizabeth said softly.  
  
"It was quite a different experience for me, I will admit."  
  
"What did you think of my friends?" She inquired, another smile playing across her face.   
  
"They seem to suit you, but they startled me. I should think one would be exhausted often if they held company with them."   
  
"Did you notice Charlotte's ring?" Elizabeth suddenly asked, remembering the glint of gold and jewel she had spied on her friend's finger. At the time she had been discussing her adventures, and forgotten to interrogate her friend later.   
  
"Ring?" Will echoed, a bit bewildered by her sudden change of subject.   
  
"I think it was an engagement ring. She must be getting married." Elizabeth cast him a pointed glance, then continued to gaze at the horizon.   
  
Will did not reply, blatantly flustered by her words and missing her intent. They walked in silence, until they felt sand beneath their feet and found that they had come to the shore. They removed all footwear and sat with their toes splayed in the sand. Elizabeth looked over at Will, who was tossing small shells into the surf, his hair being tousled by the wind. Wordlessly, she leaned onto his arm and pressed a light kiss to his lips, hoping to have caught him unawares.   
  
Apparently he had been contemplating a similar move, because as soon as she pulled away, he took her hands in his and returned her kiss, licking her lips hopefully. She responded warmly, opening her lips to allow him access. His torso leaned heavily on her lithe frame, his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her to him. She broke the kiss with a smile, her mahogany eyes sparkling against his smoldering chocolate pools. Elizabeth lowered her mouth slightly and kissed the stubble at his chin, following the line of his jaw before flicking her tongue out for a second at his temple.   
  
Will's skin burned where she placed her kisses, feather-light though they might be. A low growl sounded in his throat, and he claimed her mouth with vigor. He stroked the lining of her mouth, his lips flattened against hers. He unknowingly pressed a knee against her frame, pushing her down onto the sand, but this time she did not object. He held his body suspended over hers, her knees drawn up against his hips as he bent over her and ravished her mouth. Elizabeth reached up, her arms encircling his neck, hands playing in his hair.   
  
He lowered his lips to the crook of her neck and collar, marking her as he would a sword or a horseshoe, but this mark did not remotely resemble the entwined W and T of his stamp. At long he drew away from her to gaze upon her face, which was flushed and smiling. Will was too gentlemanly to allow her to be pressed in the sand for long, no matter how beautiful she looked there beneath him. Begrudgingly he drew her up beside him, lovingly brushing the sand from her hair and shoulders.   
  
Elizabeth, however, was not finished with him. Her plump lips covered his, her tongue begging for access. He obliged, and she explored the recesses of his mouth until, satisfied, she also withdrew and allowed her pulse to slow. "So there." She whispered, grinning widely in spite of herself.   
  
Will laughed, wrapping her in a tight embrace. When he at last freed her, she placed a hand to the mark on her neck, feeling the heated skin there. "William Turner, that wasn't a very nice thing to do." She pouted, exposing a soft lip to him.   
  
He resisted the urge to claim it for his own, instead replying, "No, but I certainly like it."   
  
She swatted at him, then shared another laugh. Her face sobered. "It wasn't a very wise thing to do, either." She said sadly, withdrawing the succulent lip to bit it. She looked up at him. "My uncle will know I've been with you."   
  
Will's eyes clouded. "I don't care what your uncle thinks of me."  
  
"But you _should_," she countered with urgency, "I've yet to face my uncle's full wrath, but I assure you, I will."   
  
"It didn't bother you before." Will insisted.  
  
"I find myself unexpectedly and oddly afraid." She glanced to the horizon, which was purple and gold with twilight.   
  
"Look at me." He commanded gently, turning her face to his with a finger. "You need never be afraid. You faced pirates, death, battle.... Your only fear was for your life-and for mine. Your life is not threatened now, so why do you fear?" Will was genuinely surprised by her revelation, and confounded by it.   
  
"I agree with what you said, but this is a different kind of threat, but it is a threat on my life, I assure you. It is a threat on my freedom, which to me, _is_ life." She leaned her head on his shoulder, clutching his arm for assurance.   
  
"You can always find freedom, Elizabeth. Like love, it comes in many forms." Will said, astonished at his intuition.   
  
Elizabeth smiled and placed a kiss on his cheek, watching as the sky faded to indigo, and the sound of the waves filled her ears. "It's getting late." Will observed a few moments later. They walked hand-in-hand from the beach to where the houses and streets began, the warm yellow lights from within the buildings casting welcoming glows. At Elizabeth's doorstep, they shared a long, lingering good-bye kiss. Will ran his fingers over the spot on her neck, a grin on his lips. "Perhaps you can avoid your uncle until this unsightly mark fades."   
  
"I might be able to avoid my uncle, but the maids are another matter." She said with reproach.   
  
"Then fill your head with thoughts of me, and you will quickly find that you rather like the attention." He said in jest, earning another swat from Elizabeth.   
  
"Go home, William Turner." She reprimanded, but still emerged inside with her lips tingling from his attentions. A grin warmed her face until she became aware of the house's somber mood. There were considerably less candles lit, and servants rushed about with their heads down, carrying bowls of hot water and towels, some bundles of herbs, and others looking as though they had nothing to do, but wishing they did.   
  
Worry and apprehension filled and replaced the warm butterflies from earlier as Elizabeth hurried up the stairs to the second landing, where flickering candlelight and hushed voices filtered from the crack in her father's door. She placed a hand to her chest; the other cracked the door open more to better observe the situation. The doctor was sitting at the governor's bedside; other doctors were grouped around him, speaking hurriedly in quiet voices.   
  
Coughs suddenly filled the room; the other doctors ceased their chatter while the one at the bedside bent and placed a handkerchief at the governor's mouth. Red speckled the white linen. Elizabeth felt as though her breath was stolen away as her father quieted, falling back to a restless slumber. His breaths were ragged and shallow, as though an invisible corset was contracting his life away. A servant approached the bed and applied a cool cloth to the governor's sweaty forehead.   
  
Her ears pricked as the junior doctors began muttering again; this time she picked up a few words.   
  
".... should we bleed him?"  
  
".... already too late..."  
  
"What should we do?"  
  
".... anymore of that steamed chamomile?"   
  
Elizabeth cleared her throat and entered the room, her eyes on her father. The head doctor raised himself with difficulty from the chair and crossed the room to her, his face grim. "Your father fell into a desperate fit, and I was summoned to his bedside. We've tried bleeding him, applying a poultice, and many other cures, but to no avail." His expression softened, "We will be outside." He bowed, and motioned to the other doctors, who quieted at last as they made their exit.   
  
Numbly, she approached the chair and sat down in it, her knees weak. She took her father's hand in hers, massaging the fingers in attempt to bring warmth back to them. He stirred, eyes opening a fraction. He attempted to speak, but his throat was so ravaged by the coughing that only a groan issued. Elizabeth fetched the water glass from the bedside table and put it too his lips. The governor drank a few drops, then spoke in a raspy, strained voice. "You look so much like your mother." He closed his eyes, breathing shallower by the minute. Elizabeth thought he had fallen asleep again, but he spoke with his eyes still closed, "I can see her now, as if she stood beside me." He sighed, a weak cough rumbling in his throat. "I am sorry I could not have been a better father, Elizabeth."  
  
"No, Father, do not say that. You love me, you only wanted the best." She insisted, tears rolling down her cheeks.   
  
"Elizabeth, tell William that he will have to make you happy again. Grief does not suit you, as I observed when your mother passed." His voice was failing; Elizabeth had to lean close to him to catch his words.   
  
"You... are so very beautiful, Elizabeth," He said, as if never tiring of hearing her name, "... so much... like your mother." He closed his eyes and drew his last breath; the breath seemed to take forever to spill from his lips as his face sagged, and his hand grew limp in her hand. Elizabeth bent her head as the silent sobs wracked her body, the tears coming hot and fast now. She sat there beside the deathbed, her cheeks raw with the salty tears until she felt a cool, wet cloth dabbing at them, and a maid's quiet hand leading her to her darkened bedroom, where her sobs filled her pillow until sleep mercifully took her.   
  
Will reached the top of a hill on his way home, turning round to see the sliver of the moon slip beneath the horizon to the sound of church bells tolling.   
  
A/N: Anybody got a tissue? This is so far the saddest thing I have ever written... hopefully the lowest point (emotionally) this story's gonna go.   
  
"What are we going to do tomorrow night, Brain?"  
  
"The same thing we do every night, we read this story and review it!" (lame, I know, I know...)


	7. Fading Quicker Than the Mark

A/N: I listening to my Switchfoot CD (The Beautiful Letdown) and the second track really reminded me of this chapter, so all of you who have the new Switchfoot CD, turn on "This is Your Life" and enjoy!  
  
Chapter 7  
  
Elizabeth could not bear to remain in the mansion while her father's funeral was being planned. She had taken to revisiting the beach where she had spent her last happy day-for it seemed to Elizabeth that she could never be as contented as she had been that evening. She sat with her knees curled up with one hand clutching them; the other sifting the sugary sand, feeling the rough grains rolling over her skin in a manner that soothed her. She lifted a hand to the place on her neck where Will's love-bite had nearly faded; it felt like a distant memory, one that faded quicker than the mark.   
  
Thinking of Will, Elizabeth wondered why she had not yet visited him. Perhaps she felt that she would rather not bother him with tears and emotion, that she might distract him from work. Of course, she already distracted him from work, but the factual reason Elizabeth kept to herself was that the pain she faced was different from any she had faced before, and it was the class of pain that felt it was unique and misunderstood. True, her mother had died, but then she had had her father, whom shared in her grief. Physical pain-well, everyone faced that. The identical scars on her and Will's palms were proof to it. She examined said scar, tracing its thin white line across her skin with her finger. No one shared her suffering this time. Without a doubt, word of the governor's death would reach the King, and a new governor would be on a ship bound for the Caribbean, carrying an official letter sympathizing with her while politely ordering her to give up the governor's residence to its new owner.   
  
A bitter laugh escaped her lips without her being aware of it. It did no good to lament on a beach about things out of her hands. She stood and brushed the sand from her dress, the white grains visible on the black damask. Elizabeth nearly laughed again at her appearance. Black did not suit her at all; it brought out hollows in her cheeks and under her eyes, and looked ridiculous on a beach in the middle of paradise-palm trees, blue water, clear skies, and a wretch on the beach swathed from head to foot in hot black material. Perhaps she had better stay indoors and endure the funeral planning; at least the mood indoors matched hers, rather than this carefree setting.   
  
Turning away from the soft lapping of the waves, she trudged uphill through the sliding sand to the dirt path that led from the town. She set off at a fast pace for the mansion, cursing any stone or pebble that might roll into her shoe. Soon she was before the door, which she wrenched open to enter the gloomily lit house. Elizabeth heard the scratching of a quill as she passed the office. She looked inside to see the baron writing neatly on a long roll of vellum. He looked up and gestured for her to enter, which she did.   
  
"I am making out a guest list to all the substantial families on the island. The militia will be hosting a full military funeral, and I would prefer it if none of the local gentry were given the cold-shoulder." He informed in his usual brisk manner. Elizabeth's eyes flickered as she inwardly groaned; why must even a funeral be planned like a state ball? Were they mourning a loss or hosting a social affair? "Whom would you like to invite, Miss Swann? Provided they are of proper means to attend." Her interest rose for a second-finally, a decision for her to make! But then it quickly fell, as she dully reminded herself that those were the kind of petty decisions she would likely make for the rest of her life were she to do as he asked and return to England.   
  
"Would the residents of Port Royal be welcomed to attend?" She asked softly, smoothing her dress for want of something to do.   
  
Her uncle stiffened. "Well... they would be able to observe, if they wished. It is just a prerogative to send out an official solicitation on these occasions." He bent over the vellum and added a few more names. She left the room without answering his question.   
  
Will was restless. He had been in his shop for near three days now, and had yet to have a visit from Elizabeth. While he pitied her loss and accepted her seeming need to be alone, a small selfish part of him wished she would visit anyway. He thought to devote some considerable time to instructing his apprentice, but Christopher too seemed distracted and distant. The boy was perpetually forgetting orders and was loosing some of his zeal to please.   
  
"For goodness sake Christopher," Will exclaimed after Christopher broke his third hammer handle and neglected the coals yet again, "I may make a fair wage from selling swords, but I will not profit if I have to replace every tool in the shop!"  
  
Christopher mumbled an apology and bent to examine the piece of folded steel he had been attempting to refine. "Don't bother," His master said impatiently, "The steel is already cool and since the coals have gone out _again_, there is no use continuing." Unmistakably, the emotional past few days and Will's worry were taking their toll on him. He sent the apprentice to the goldsmith for decorative leaf and collapsed onto the workbench, face in his hands.   
  
He did not realize how tense his shoulder muscles were until he attempted to relax them. The muscles strained across his arms, shoulders, and back, reflecting his beleaguered mood. He reached one hand to his right shoulder blade, furiously rubbing and massaging the skin there. Suddenly, he envisioned Elizabeth standing before him, her arms wide, beckoning to him. Perhaps if she were here, she might pass her smooth fingers over his shoulders and ease the tension from them-then he would take her face in his hands and kiss her pain away. Those thoughts brought an unexpected smile to his face, and soon he was up from the bench, prepared to pump air onto the faint coals and continue with his work.   
  
The night before the funeral, the Baron Montefiore requested that his niece take her supper with him and Elizabeth begrudgingly agreed. They sat in silence, eating slowly through the meal with the clink of silverware being the only sounds. Elizabeth was beginning to wonder why he had requested her presence, when her uncle spoke to her from across the long, varnished table.   
  
"Miss Swann, I would like to bring a subject to your attention that we have neglected discussion for the past week." He said contemptuously, placing his fork down upon his napkin daintily.   
  
Elizabeth paused in the middle of her pudding, praying he did not fancy to speak of any recent liaisons with Will. She parsimoniously clamped a hand over the faint mark on her neck, but managed to return her utensil to the dish without mishap.   
  
"I know it seems heartless for me to speak of what your father's death means to your position, but this is a matter of most consequence."   
  
Elizabeth nodded, her anxiety easing slightly.  
  
"A lady of inheritance, such as yourself, has no place in a colony." The baron said bluntly, gesturing to the trappings about him. "The Caribbean was your father's mission-an assignment from the king to govern a fledgling settlement. He has fulfilled that duty, and it is _your_ duty to return to England and manage your finances." He cast her a severe glance.  
  
"What do you mean, 'manage my finances'?" Elizabeth asked with suspicion, "It is just money. I could have a house built-"  
  
The baron gave a terse laugh. "A house built in the air? A woman cannot own land! Land is either given by the king, or bought by a man and raised as a plantation. Unless you mean to marry a rough homesteader, you could not live here." He laughed to himself again--as if he would allow _that_!  
  
Elizabeth swallowed, anger building up in her chest. She opened her mouth, but then the baron remembered her question.  
  
"By managing your finances, I mean for you to marry and pass your father's money to your son." He took a sip from his wineglass. "Which is why it is _imperative_ that you return to England immediately and become a proper lady of society."   
  
Finding her voice at last, Elizabeth spoke up, "Why must _everything_ revolve around my finding a husband?!"  
  
"Because you are now without a father! You have no financial protection. I cannot be your guardian because you are not a Montefiore and not my heir." The baron quickly cut in, his brisk voice simmering.   
  
"My mother was a Montefiore! And you have no heir!" Elizabeth spat, not caring that she was perilously disrespecting an elder.   
  
"Be quiet," The baron said, his voice imperceptible but filled with threat. "It does no good to speak off the subject. The point of the matter is that you will go to England and marry; it is what is expected of you, and it is what you _will_ do."  
  
Elizabeth clutched her dress so hard that the material crumpled. She suddenly smiled to herself. People-especially docile maidservants-often wondered where she got her stubbornness. She had always remembered her mother as soft-spoken and loving, and her father was easy to sway on most occasions. Clearly, her intransigence matched her uncle's, and Elizabeth was not sure if this was something to be proud of or fear.   
  
"And what if I refuse?" She asked, her voice mimicking his falsely passive tone.   
  
"What could you _possibly_ do to challenge me?" The baron queried laughingly, taking up his knife to cut his meat.   
  
Again Elizabeth's temper flared, and she stood from her chair to exit the dining room. "What do you presume to be doing?" Her uncle cast her a glare; slowly cutting long strips in his dinner.   
  
She opened her mouth to retaliate, but then snapped it shut, sitting down heavily and continuing with her meal in a fidgeting fashion, angered by her uncle and her own submission.   
  
The night before the funeral was dark. A cool wind ruffled the palm trees outside her window, and Elizabeth was afraid to light a candle for fear the draft would put it out. She sat in a chair by the window, staring into the darkness of her room and thinking of a time nearly a decade past when she had done something very similar.   
  
_The London fog crept past her window; the heat from the house creating a thin layer of sweat on the windows, in which Elizabeth was drawing shapes and curlicues. Her pink ruffled nightgown-the one she detested-enveloped her slim, 11-year-old frame like a cocoon. A maid was brushing her honey-colored curls, but young Elizabeth paid no mind as she thought of her mother's funeral the day past. Her beautiful, young mother had always been full of laughs and caresses. She adored lace and pearls, and tried to encourage such a love in her daughter, but Elizabeth was stubbornly resistant to bows and ribbons. Mistress Swann resigned herself to taking her girl on rides in the country, her palfrey barely able to keep stride with her daughter's retired racehorse.   
  
She loved attending dinner parties with her husband, and looked forward to returning home and reading stories to Elizabeth-whom thankfully enjoyed fairy tales as much as books on warfare and science. Elizabeth grew used to falling asleep with her mother's soft voice on her ears, and then being woken up as she tucked her coverlet in discreetly, snuffing out the candle and making sure the fire was well banked.   
  
Sadly, though, the typhus decided to carry away her young mother on two black Belgians, and Elizabeth and Master Swann followed the caisson to the Swann family mausoleum. It left Elizabeth by the window that cold, foggy evening, her hair being brushed by a maid instead of her mother's deft hands.   
  
There were voices outside her door. She turned her head to see her father enter the room, a note clutched in his fingers, and an odd expression on his face. It was an expression upon a canvas lined with sorrow and age; the expression itself reminded her of excitement and apprehension. "Elizabeth," He nodded to her, beckoning for the maid to leave--which she did, with a curtsey. "The King wishes for me to be governor of one of the colonies of the West Indies!"   
  
She cocked her head, her hand still on the windowsill. "You are leaving?" She asked softly, suddenly afraid of being sent away to a finishing school or to live with her relatives.   
  
"You are too, Elizabeth." The governor assured with a knowing smile.   
  
She smiled too, "When are we leaving?"   
  
"In a fortnight, as soon as I can book passage and have our things packed..."_  
  
Elizabeth shivered, drawing her arms around her. She wished she could light a candle; she wished Will were there, that he would place warm arms around her and put warm thoughts into her head; that he would kiss her until all she could think of was him, and not of lugubrious things.   
  
Little did she know, but Will stood there outside the gate, where he always seemed to be when she was in pits of despair. The sky was want of moon, and dark clouds scuttled across the star-strewn sky in a high wind. He stared at her dark window, wondering what he could do to attract her attention. She had admonished him before when he had neglected to visit her, and now he felt real need to be with her. He had lost both parents as well, and his heart broke for her, understanding her want to be alone, but also knowing of her need to be in comforting company.   
  
He looked to the ground, where a few loose pebbles lay. He thought to throw one, but then realized that her window was up, and that he might shatter another's glass. Cautiously, he cupped his hands about his mouth, letting out a low whistle. The curtain in the window stirred. He gave the sound again, and this time the curtain was pulled back by a thin hand, followed by a solemn face. Elizabeth brightened when she saw him, and the curtain was quickly drawn back.   
  
Will's eyes roved to the door, which, after a time, crept open and closed as she hurried across the lawn and path to him, her gown fluttering in the wind behind her. She fished in one deep pocket of her dressing gown, withdrawing a heavy iron key. She inserted it in the lock of the gate and turned it with difficulty, feeling Will's eyes on her. He slipped through the gate, taking her about the waist swiftly.   
  
His hand found the curls of her hair, the other holding her slim frame to him. "It has been far too long since I set eyes upon your face." He said softly.  
  
A few tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, one escaping the confines of her lashes to make a dark trail down her cheek. Will bent and kissed the recreant tear, tasting its saltiness against his lips.   
  
"I apologize. My heart has been broken and I have needed time to mend it." She replied in a melancholy whisper.   
  
He cupped her face, one broad thumb tracing her cheekbones. "Has it been mended?"  
  
She shook her head. Elizabeth reached up and took his hand, twining his fingers with hers. Wordlessly, she pulled away, leading him towards the house. The door snapped shut silently behind them as they stole up the stairs and across the landing. Will felt slight apprehension as she led him to her room, but he managed to keep it from his face.   
  
She shut the door and returned to her chair by the window, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them. The darkness of the room enveloped them like a shroud, drawing whispers where voiced speech was able, and casting a similar darkness on the hearts of the room's occupants. "Why must those you love cause you so much pain-pain eared simply by loving them?" She asked, her voice filled with anguish.   
  
"I don't know... It doesn't seem just, does it?" Will replied, her question striking him as acute to the woes of love.   
  
"My uncle asked me whom I would invite to the funeral. I could not reply." She turned a piercing gaze upon him. "I cannot think of such things. My heart is filled with sorrow and my head is filled with questions. And my spirit... My spirit still denies it."   
  
Will could not find anything to say.   
  
"Before he died, my father said he could see my mother beside him." Her eyes softened, but behind her lids brimmed with tears of desperation. "I was glad to know..." She sniffed, still denying her tears, "I was glad to know he was not alone." She laid her cheek upon her knees, teardrops spilling at last onto the soft fabric. "I wish he could not have left _me_ so alone."  
  
Will stepped to her side, kneeling before her chair. "But you are not alone, Elizabeth." With that, he raised her head from her knees and kissed each tear that streamed down it, then settling to her lips and laying a soft caress there. It was chaste; it was innocent, and Will pulled away to peer into her face, searching for any shred of hope that might have returned to her. Looking into her sienna eyes shrouded with grief, he saw not hope, but strength. It was like the beam of a lighthouse-lost in fog and tempest, but striving mightily to guide her soul along a straight path. He prayed it would never fail her.   
  
"Will," She murmured under his scrutiny. She brought her hands up to his face to cup it, putting her lips upon his. She craved his touch; a touch that reminded her that she was indeed loved. Elizabeth opened her mouth against his, tongue tracing the outline of his lips gently. At last he relented, and pushed her tongue back into her mouth with his. Their mouths sucked hungrily at each other until they broke apart for breath, faces flushed. Will laid a hand on her cheek before continuing in their ardor; lest he forget that he was in her bedroom, and that she was not his to claim yet.   
  
She stood from the chair, letting her dressing gown slide from her shoulders, a long, lacy nightgown beneath. Will looked down her gowned frame, knowing she meant for him to spend the night. He removed his cloak, boots, and stockings, laying them carefully over the chair. He reached over and drew the curtain back so that he would awaken to the sun's first rays. Elizabeth wrapped her arms about his waist, kissing him again. He responded by grasping her shoulder and leaning forward to nuzzle her lips again, then passing along her jaw and then down to her neck, kissing it heartily but leaving no mark this time.   
  
Elizabeth broke their embrace, walking to the bed and sliding between the sheets, her hair spread out on the white pillow. Will hesitated for a moment, then lay next to her, feeling suddenly awkward. She rolled to where she faced him, placing a wet kiss by his temple as she pulled his loose shirt over his head, relishing the way the faint light from the window shone over he smooth torso. He held her to him as he deeply kissed her lips and jaw, then smoothed her hair and released her. She smiled and pushed against his back, meaning for him to roll over. He complied, exposing a broad back to her. Her hands ran lightly over the toned flesh, drawing a shiver from him. "Relax," She murmured, pressing harder and stroking the muscles there. He tensed, but was soon used to her touch on his bare skin, and allowed it to lull him into a light slumber.   
  
Elizabeth felt her lids grow leaden to the sound of his deep breathing, his chest rising and falling against her breast. She laid her head on his shoulder and joined him in repose, praying that they both would wake before the household stirred.   
  
The pale fingers of morning stroked Will's face, laying reprimanding kisses on his eyelids, and he awoke to the soft light pouring over Elizabeth's white sheets and the breeze fluttering the bed hangings. Will sat up and rubbed his eyes, running a hand through his tousled hair. Looking over to Elizabeth, he smiled and reached a hand to lay it on her cheek, moving a few tendrils of hair from her eyes. She instinctively swatted his hand away. He smiled and leaned to lay a small kiss near her temple, then blew lightly in her ear, until she squirmed and begrudgingly opened an eye.   
  
"What?" She said, then yawned. She sat up and smoothed her nightgown about her curves, as it had bunched up around her during the night.   
  
"I have to leave." Will replied simply, standing and walking to where she had discarded his shirt, pulling it over his head and tucking it into the waistline of his knickers. He quickly donned his footwear and cloak, Elizabeth looking on with a slight pout. He walked to the bed and cupped her face, a thumb moving over her cheekbone. "I will come back after...." he paused, not wishing to bring her back to reality so cruelly. "After the funeral." He said at last, stooping to kiss her lips. When he pulled away a frown sat upon her lips, the taint of her sorrow still present.   
  
She walked to the window, observing as he made his exit through the gate and down the street. Elizabeth watched the place where he had disappeared for a few minutes, and then crossed to the wardrobe to make a selection of the black gowns hung there.   
  
Guests began arriving around noon, and kept coming until supper. The Emersons arrived with a large entourage, with Louis and Fred riding ahead on young geldings, Charlotte resigned to the carriage with her stepmother and father. Elizabeth greeted her guests with smiles that did not reach her eyes, numbly playing the role of lady of the house. The funeral was to be held at the fort, with much military pomp and circumstance. Elizabeth followed with an entourage of maids and household servants, all with never-ending supplies of handkerchiefs. A crowd of townspeople stood outside the gates of the fort, all with head's bowed respectfully. Elizabeth spotted Will in that crowd, and she fought a longing urge to rush into his arms. His dark eyes watched her subtly as she passed, he too feeling a yearning for her touch.   
  
There was a tap on her shoulder as she entered the stone walls of the fort, and she turned around to see Commodore Norrington standing there, a solemn expression on his long face. He extended a hand to her, which she took, and he kissed the back of her palm. "I extend my sympathies to you in your time of grief, Miss Swann. It is an honor to perform your late father's services."   
  
Elizabeth nodded, not caring that his words were said with the utmost formality, because his eyes grieved with her, and offered emotion where his voice could not. "Thank you."   
  
"I wish to know," He continued, more quietly, leaning in slightly, "If you are returning to Port Royal after your duties to your late father are complete."   
  
"At the present moment, no, James," she sighed, casting a mental eye to Will. "I have to cause to return, and to property to return to."   
  
Norrington's brow furrowed. "Surely you would return to marry Blacksmith Turner... But no," He said, comprehension dawning on his face, "there have been no marriage banns posted, have there?"   
  
Elizabeth shook her head.  
  
"He has not asked your hand, then? What detains him?"   
  
"Only William and heaven know." She replied, a slight scowl tugging at her lips.   
  
"Oh, well..." He looked up and saw that the services were ready to commence. "Forgive me, Miss Swann, I must attend to my duties." With a bow, he departed. Elizabeth took her place beside the household and watched with dull eyes.   
  
The funeral concluded with her father's coffin being loaded onto a magnificent flagship for its return to England. Elizabeth would be expected to accompany it along the long journey. As she surveyed the flagship as it was loaded with provisions and supplies for the trip, she dolefully reminded herself that she would have to have a good incentive for returning to the Caribbean afterwards-or she would have to comply with the baron's orders and marry in England.   
  
Elizabeth cast her eyes to where Will stood. If he did not ask her hand in marriage, she would not be able to return to him, and ran the risk of never seeing him or the Caribbean again. She shivered. Her fate lay in the hands of men, and Elizabeth always felt it a perilous thing to be in such a situation.  
  
A/N: Sorry about the long delay! My muse ran away and I had to run after it with a butterfly net. It is safely in its cage again and is helping me continue with Chapter 8. Thanks for the reviews everyone, and to my Beta, Arianna! 


	8. Naked Fingers and Unloved Lovers

A/N: So sorry for the tremendous wait. School started, Beta is busy with a move, ect. It's been up on my computer a while, but I wanted to get a better start on chapt 9 and settle into a routine for school. I finally have a weekend tho, so here's chapt 8. Warning: There is a sensual scene in this chapter, though everything is a respectable pg13. If anyone has any suggestions/critiques/complaints on how this scene was written, feel free to write me a review or email. No flamers please!  
  
Chapter 8  
  
The taverns in Port Royal were of Caribbean fame, second only to those of Tortuga. They invited all class of workmen-and women-of the town to drown the toil and grief of their lives in ale and rum. Old fishermen sipped their drinks slowly and contentedly, holding the tumblers in knotted and sea-worn fingers. Younger men drank pints of the stuff, singing lewd songs audibly and swearing great oaths with mouths that stank of stale rum and poor diets. Whenever a brawl broke out, shattered glass and splinters of wood would litter the surrounding streets for days, and many of the workmen sported split knuckles and puffy, black eyes for the remainder of the week.

But there were no brawls tonight in the taverns of the harbor, and Christopher sat at a leaning wooden table with several of his rambunctious friends, imbibing a tumbler of ale with rather more gusto than was befitting for his age. His friends all worked at the docks preparing the fishermen's nets and boats for the day, some of them accompanying them, scraping barnacles and re-tarring ships until dusk arrived and they hastened to bring in the day's bounty. Their hands were prematurely callused and scarred, their young muscles broad and lean beneath their patched shirts and knickers. They all felt rather slighted that Christopher had the luck to land the position of apprentice to the respectable town blacksmith, and never passed up an opportunity to taunt him about his new practice.

"You're going to forget your manners!" One lad, Fernando, exclaimed. His father was a Spaniard who worked as a poor sailor on a merchant vessel, and was hardly ever home to attend to his brood and young wife. "You'll be angry and think to swear, but all that will come from your lips will be a prayer." Fernando sniggered and took a great gulp from his tankard. Christopher bestowed his chortling companions with a sarcastic grin and sullenly continued with his drink.

"I think you're going soft. Standing around all day hammering steel and feeding a fire? No excitement? No jeopardy? You will be as even-tempered as my old mother," an older lad, Geoffrey, taunted.  
"But Jeff, your old mother is dead," someone chimed in, and the others shared another hearty laugh at the apprentice's expense.

The boy sitting nearest to Christopher, Terrence, leaned in with a mocking air of secrecy and said, "Especially when it comes to women; you've been holed up in that shop-come your first experience, you won't know what to do and will make a yourself a fool."

At this insult on his manhood, Christopher sat up, his eyes narrowed. "I will not." His retort was weak, and only gave the others cause to snicker all the more.

"Prove it, then," Fernando challenged, then seeing the look on his companion's face, added, "Not in front of us, dolt. Find yourself a whore and she'll tell us the merit of your actions." Christopher gripped his tankard tightly, taking a long swig of his ale so as to delay his answer. As he did so, his eyes wandered the crowded, smoky tavern, eyes settling on a gaggle of young whores who seemed to be around the ages of the boys at the table. One of them, a tall wench with curls of thick black hair piled loosely atop her head, approached the table. She plopped herself in Fernando's lap, running one hand through his wavy hair, the other on his brown cheek.

"You haven't been to see me in a while, dearie." She pouted one plump lip and rolled one shoulder so that the sleeve of her dress slid down farther and revealed more protruding bosom. Fernando grinned at the table of young men eyeing him and his whore jealously and then took the plump lip and administered a hard kiss. "It appears I haven't, Miss Mary."

Mary grinned and sneaked a hand into his pocket, pulling out a tarnished brass coin. "I know you have the means, so why haven't you been to see me?"  
"I thought to make you wait a little while, see if you miss me." Fernando grinned maliciously. "It appears you have."

"Oh really." Mary narrowed her eyes and gave a grin like a vixen, and lowered her painted mouth to his ear and whispered. Fernando gripped her about the waist tightly and suddenly bore an anxious expression. Christopher eyed this display with some disgust, attempting to distract himself by downing the last dregs of his ale.

At length Fernando remembered his friend's plight. "Master Christopher here has yet to lose his maidenhood. Perhaps one of your friends might make amends to his distress?" The apprentice's ears reddened at his being called a maiden and in apprehension to the events that were rapidly leading up to a disastrous night. He watched helplessly as Mary disentangled herself from Fernando and crossed the room to her huddle of friends, emerging with a shorter, tawny-headed lass who looked to be a year Christopher's senior.

"This is Laurie. I think she will be apt to solve your friend's problem." Laurie surveyed Christopher with a cool air, her lips pursed in the manner of a cat sizing up its prey. The apprentice noticed, with a nervous jolt, that her eyes were a steely shade of gray, and that her thin but pretty face had hard lines of experience too old for her young body. Her dress clung to curves much less pronounced than sumptuous Mary's, and her entire aura was one of a bitterness and severity. Her eyes finally met Christopher's, her scrutiny completed, and she flashed him a seductive smile that turned her steel eyes an iron gray. Again his heart lurched.

"I'll take good care of him." She purred, stepping to his side and placing her hands on his shoulders. They massaged them briefly, then one hand slipped inside his shirt and roamed over the skin of his chest. His heart thumped wildly beneath her fingers. His companions' laughter rang loudly, almost painfully so, in his ears, and he cursed himself for being such a fool. Laurie bent and murmured in his ear, "Come along, I have a room upstairs." His Adam's apple was a throbbing lump in his throat, making it impossible for him to reply. She took him by the hand, and he stood from his chair and followed her up a flight of rickety stairs in the shadows of the tavern, glad of the dim light hiding his ferocious blush.

They entered a dingy room lit by one low taper, a narrow bed in one dark corner the only furniture besides a stool on which the candlestick rested. Laurie closed the door smartly and advanced upon Christopher, her arms wrapping about his waist. She reached up and kissed him in the same manner in which she had closed the door-brisk and businesslike. She wasted no time softly caressing his lips, but pressed her tongue upon him with such confidence that weakened the recipient's knees. With ease she pulled his shirt over his head, and soon followed his knickers. Christopher stood pressed against her rather stupidly, his legs trembling slightly in his now naked state.

"Well, really now!" Laurie exclaimed, taking his hands and helping him undo the laces of her dress; he felt a fire burning in his nether region and found that he was undressing her now with some energy. The whore smiled has he found himself at last and pressed another demanding kiss to his mouth, leading him expertly to the bed. He lay beneath her as she made love to him, his anxiety and self-scorning pushing aside any pleasure he could have derived from the situation. It felt like some cruel joke-this was what his companions craved at all hours? He had a half mind to push the girl aside and have no more to do with such things, but his own pride kept him there, feeling like the asinine dolt he was. He barely participated, finding himself unaware of what to do. She dexterously handled him, though, and rolled off him with a certain vainglorious demeanor that agitated him.

"Now, that wasn't too bad, now was it?" She implored with a grin, getting up from the bed and pulling her thin garment over her. She bent and fished in his knickers for her payment, then crossed the room to the door, her hand on the latch. "Get up and get on with you, I have other customers, you know." She shut the door behind her, leaving him alone in the dim room with the miserable acknowledgment that Terrence and the others had been right. He quickly dressed and smoothed his sweaty locks from his forehead, preparing himself to rejoin his companions at the table in the tavern and face their jeering.  
  
It was in the early hours of the morning that Christopher stumbled into Will's tenant, his clothes sloppily hung in his person and ale slopped down his front. William surveyed the boy sternly; his eyes sported bags as a result from a night of waiting up for the prodigal apprentice. "I need not ask where you have been, but ask why you stayed so late." He growled, watching as he flung himself into the chair opposite his master, supporting his head in his hands.

"I don't have a good reason." Christopher slurred resentfully, not feeling up to an interrogation.

"I can see that you wish for bed, and I will grant you sleep until morning, but then you must arise and accompany me to the shop-not matter how your head ails you." Will pushed a tumbler of cool water across the table to the boy, who sipped it gratefully. He stood and exited to his bedroom, hearing his apprentice scrambling for a bucket, and then the sound of vomit hitting the bottom of a pail. He lay down on his lumpy straw mattress; glad for the comfort his pillow offered his tired head. A worry for his apprentice lay permanently etched across his eyes every time he surveyed the boy, and he despaired of how to make amends to what was rapidly becoming a hopeless plight.  
  
The household of the late Governor Swann was in an uproar. Servants hurried to pack and polish the silver, maids aired long-forgotten linens, the scullery maid took the pots to the beach and scrubbed them clean with sand, and every inch of grime and dust was scoured away until the mansion sparkled with an almost unnatural cleanliness. The furniture and decoration were dusted and covered with clean white sheets, adding an un-lived in and ghostly air to the cleanliness so that Elizabeth hardly recognized it as her home of eight years.

In the lady's room countless trunks stood open. One was filled with her body linens, the other with her jewelry and adornments, one with nightgowns, one with formal gowns, one with traveling gowns, one with daytime frocks, one with the linens of her bed, until Elizabeth's head spun and she wondered how she had accumulated so many garments. "Are you sure the ship will not sink with such a cumbersome freight?" She inquired of a maid, sinking onto her bed that was stripped of its usual lace and decoration.

"Rest assured, Miss Swann," the maid replied cheerfully, "The unneeded items will be sent along later." She bent and closed the lid on a trunk, fingers nimbly snapping the clasps shut.

"Will you and the others be coming?" Elizabeth asked softly. The maid's plump, sunny face fell slightly.

"Some shall-the ones needed to look after you, Miss, and enough to refill the empty house in London, but," she unnecessarily refolded a pair of lace stockings, "many of us will remain for the new governor's use." Her eyes met her mistress's with some sadness. "Some of us have family here in the islands."  
Elizabeth nodded, her curls brushing forward to partially hide her face. "I understand. I shall miss many of you, then." She found no more to say to the maid, observing her work with one lip clenched beneath her teeth and hands playing in the embroidery of her skirt. Soon the maid finished packing the contents of the room and left, returning with an entourage of other servants to haul the heavy wooden trunks down to the wagons in front of the mansion. Elizabeth found herself watching them with a numbness that steeped from a constant void in her heart.

A meal was brought to her, which she nibbled at but quickly had returned to the kitchen, and when darkness fell she allowed the bed to be warmed and coverlet to be drawn up to her chin, and was left alone with her eyes silently scanning the ceiling. When she was quite sure the household was settled and lamps extinguished, she dressed and slipped from the house to the darkened street, her feet hitting the cobblestones with a metallic ring. They brought her to Will's shop, the clang of metal on metal and the hiss of steam filling the silence of the street. Elizabeth lay her hands on the rough door and peered through one of the cracks in it, finding herself hesitant to enter.  
  
Will pumped the bellows of the forge in the sweltering evening humidity. Sweat trickled down his face and neck, and as he wiped the droplets away with his hand he left soot marks where his fingers had been. As he gave a forceful heave on the bellows, a wave of hot air rushed from the coals he was heating, scorching his face and making it seem as though the beads of perspiration sizzled. He ignored the painful sensation, being far too used to it to care. His powerful arms continued to pump the coals to their desirable temperature, his mind wandering over matters much different from his trade.

He thought of his night with Elizabeth-how it felt so right to sleep beside her, to feel her comforting warmth near to him. Even before that night he had thought of the comforts of having her near him always; to awaken to her breath and smile every day and to hear her laughter in his ears as he sat by the fire in the evenings. He wanted to live in a house glimmering with a womanly touch-perhaps carefully stitched curtains in the window, or flowers growing in luscious rows in the garden, or to have the aroma of baking bread permanently part of the scent of the house.

With a wry smile, he remembered that Elizabeth would not care to perform such domestic tasks, and that he was more likely to get the flowers than sewing or food. But that certainly was not what mattered to Will-it was simply having her there as his own. His smile fell as he reminded himself of his poverty compared to her wealth. He had a two-room shack to offer a lady of nobility; a two-room shack and a worthless name. Will was not fool enough to assume that his Elizabeth would care about such trivial things as title or wealth, but Will's own pride hindered his request to marry her. He could not bear to have her servants turn up their noses at his small tenement, or bear to have her fine things hanging on worn iron hooks or lacy doilies covering unfinished wooden furniture. It would look absurd and would humiliate Elizabeth in the social community.

To Will, the situation seemed hopeless. There was no way on earth for him to change his circumstances and no way on earth that he could offer her such a poor subsistence. Looking to the glowing hearth, he realized that his efforts had at last produced a sufficient blaze, and he quickly prepared the steel for heating. For the next few hours he hammered out the beginnings of a sword, his sweat rolling over his body like his thoughts rolled over his mind.  
  
He worked heavily past his usual closing time, and was surprised when he heard the door latch lifted and heard a soft tread on the steps from the threshold. His aching arms ceased their work, hands laying tools in their respective positions. He took up a rag and cleaned his fingers, turning around slowly to survey his visitor. A smile grew and died on his lips as he saw her drawn face and stiffness in her movements. "What is it?" His voice rasped, reflecting his weariness. She didn't look at him.

"I'm leaving tomorrow." Her eyes then darted up to his face to judge his reaction. The face was tired and red and glistening from exercise.

"For England?"

She nodded slowly, expression unchanged. The shop held an unnatural gloominess to it, the only light coming from the dim red coals. Will stood silhouetted in front of the light that cast shadows in his beloved's face. "Why?" He took a step toward her.

"I have to take my father to the family burial plot. It is my duty." Her voice held little sonority, as though reading from a list of charges placed upon an accused.

"I understand duty," He replied ruefully, letting out a long sigh, "but what shall you do when that duty is completed?" He tensed for her response.

Her dark eyes surveyed him as though searching for a right answer. "I don't know. I cannot return here."

Will started, reaching back groping for the anvil for balance, but grasping a hot sword instead. He let out a strangled yelp, clutching his seared hand. Elizabeth rushed forward and took his hand in hers, and plunging it into the bucket of water. She searched the shop for bandages, then sat him in a chair and took the seat opposite him, preparing to dress the wound. Luckily, Will kept a salve from the apothecary specifically for burns, and she applied it to the ugly red weal across his wrist, palm, and fingers, then sealed it all up in a tight wrap of cloth. He surveyed her quietly while she worked, noticing her lack of words.  
"So why cannot you return?" He asked after a time as she was tying off the bandage.

She looked up, mouth in a hard line. She glanced down again to his bandaged hand, stroking the back of one encased finger lightly and pensively. "What finger is this?"

"What?" His brow furrowed.  
"What finger is it?" She repeated, drawing the maimed hand up to her mouth and kissing the bandages.  
"The ring finger." He said distractedly, attempting to draw her back to his earlier query.

"What do you see on mine?" Elizabeth showed him a soft, deftly manicured hand, the one Will knew displayed a thin white scar on the palm.

"Nothing. Tell me, why cannot you return here?" He pressed, frustration growing.

"Exactly. 'Tis because of this finger's nakedness that I cannot return to you, William." She replied, dropping the hand to her side.

Comprehension broke on his face like the slap of cold water in the morning. "That's it, then? Your fate lies on betrothal?"  
Elizabeth nodded miserably. "As much as I would curse the world of men for my calamity, I have to agree." Will's shoulders drooped, his head sunk. "Please tell me you have pondered asking my hand. Tell me that you had every intention of doing so." She pleaded, reaching and lightly touching his face.

Will's good hand clasped the hand to his cheek, turning his face and kissing it. "I admit I have."

"Then why have you not asked me to marry you?" Her eyes implored him desperately, tears threatening to spill down her dimly lit face.

"Because I have nothing. You would never have servants, never have fine things, never have-"  
"Do you think those things _matter to me_? I don't want them."  
"But _I_ want them for you. You deserve them, and you deserve a man who can give them to you." Tears did spill and they flowed down her cheeks. Will watched, wondering why he could not kiss these away. With a jolt he realized that it was because he had caused them.

"You cannot mean that." She sobbed, throwing her hands to her face in attempt to stem the flow.

"But I want the best for you!" He cried, voice wrought with frustration.  
"Do you _want_ me to leave? Has it never crossed you mind that I might have some property that would allow a more comfortable life? I am not a pauper."

"I don't want your money." He retorted, hurt that she might assume that of him.  
"That _isn't_ the point. Figure out what you _do_ want, William, before all else is lost to you." She stood and exited the shop dramatically, her steps hurried and angry. Will kicked out with a yell, then doubled over to grasp his throbbing toe. His voice tore in his throat as he yelled again, but he did not bother to glance to the door, because he knew she would not come back.  
  
Elizabeth threw herself onto her bed, mouth pushed into a pillow as she vented her frustrations on it. She felt utterly numb and empty as she soaked the feathers with tears and screams, until she went limp and weakly clutched it, dabbing at her raw cheeks. Her wet eyelashes clung to her cheekbones, and soon she fell into a deep, troubled sleep.  
  
Will sat in his shop as the hours of the night slowly crept by, his body sore from sitting in a hard chair in the same position, his eyes sore with unnoticed weeping, and heart sore from their argument. His head told him that he had made the right decision-that perhaps it was better for the both of them if they ended their fledgling relationship in mid-flight, perhaps it was not to late for-  
But then his heart reprimanded its logical member and whispered sweetly in his ear. It reminded him that he loved her, and that he was condemning her to a life of subtle misery--a life of quiet smiles and sleepless nights beside an unloved lover. A life of meaningless parties and trifles; of endless stitching and gossiping; of outlandish expenses and luxuries that brought only status and stress; a life of high-blooded beasts that would sooner trample you that allow you a peaceful ride in the country; a life of empty substance.

He could not do that to her-he could not wish that on his vilest enemy. In his heart of hearts, he knew his beloved preferred a simple life that brought both heartbreak and utter joy. He would be a villain to deny her that, and Will Turner had a lifelong vendetta against villains. Perhaps there was still time to ask her hand. He strained an ear and heard the bell tower strike four. Yes, there was just enough time. Will stood quickly, his muscles complaining, and rummaged through a pile of lead shavings to find a slim box containing small sheets of gold leaf that he usually laid into sword handles. There was just enough there to fashion a ring. He worked through the early hours of the morning with what little gold-crafting tools he had, the tongs emerging from the water bucket with a carefully made gold band that glinted in the sun's first rays.  
  
Christopher, by all accounts, was a regular prodigal son. The gold from the baron did not jingle in his pockets long. It went for a week solely for ale and occasionally wine. After his disastrous night with Laurie, he felt compelled to prove his jeering companions wrong. He became a regular customer to the slim, catlike whore, and soon felt nearly as experienced as the sleazy Fernando. The night of Will and Elizabeth's fight, he lay beside Laurie after rigorous lovemaking, his brow beaded with sweat and his last few shillings clutched in his palm. Laurie was propped up on an elbow, smiling at him as she ran a hand up and down his side, her movements all denoting an eminent payoff. "What are you planning to do after I take up the last of your earnings, Christopher?" She cooed in his ear, fingers traveling over his fist and the shillings inside.

"Haven't I proved worthy of your favors?" He asked roguishly, biting at a finger playfully. "Mmm, perhaps, but worthy doesn't put bread on the table, love."

"I think I can get more where it came from." He said thoughtfully, sitting up. "What did you do to earn such handsome coins?" Laurie sat up too, planting a kiss at his temple.

"I really didn't do anything. It's more like what I promised to do." He turned and laid a caress on her lips.

"Have you carried out this promise?" Laurie asked a little breathlessly.

"No."

She eyed him reproachfully, then stood and strode from the bed slowly, her hips swinging seductively. "Well, you can't expect more pay if you have not yet done what you promised." She pulled her tattered clothing over her head, kicking his clothes aside unceremoniously. He sighed and began to dress as well, then took her in his arms and kissed her once more, placing a few coins in her palm as they pulled apart. Her enticing smile returned and she exited the cramped room, closing the door behind her. Christopher observed the closed door for a few moments, then exited as well, his feet carrying him to the back of the blacksmith's shop and Will and Elizabeth's yells. He heard the front door close with a slam and Will's following yelp of pain. Christopher rummaged through a pile of rubbish in the alley, emerging with a makeshift torch he had fashioned. He crouched in the alley until daybreak and heard the sound of his master exiting the shop.

Quickly he entered and approached the hearth, heart hammering at his preeminent actions. Drawing a breath, he plunged the torch in the coals until the end caught fire, then carried it to one of the many piles of straw against the shop wall. The fire hungrily licked and consumed the thin blades, traveling up the wall and encasing a beam in flame. Christopher rushed to the other side of the shop and did the same, until two walls burned and the air grew heavy with smoke. He ran outside knocking on doors and yelling, until everyone within a few miles' radius were alerted to a fire that could quickly spread to other buildings.  
  
Will heard the shouts, and stood on the spot with his thoughts rapidly calculating. The tide would shift in thirty minutes, taking all ocean-bound vessels out to sea. He had two decisions; stay and help douse the flames consuming his only livelihood, or rush to the harbor and demand his beloved's return to him with an engagement ring. Another frenzied yell drew his foot in the direction of the shop, and another followed until he was running flat-out to the source of the billowing smoke, his breath caught up in helplessness.  
  
When the maids woke Elizabeth on the morning of the departure, she emerged from the covers pale and lifeless. She gave no resistance to dressing in the finest gown her wardrobe had to offer, despite how it pushed her life's breath from her lungs. She climbed into the carriage with the baron quietly, her eyes not to the window as usual, but to her lap, where her hands rested limply. The baron surveyed her quietness with approval, glad that at last his efforts to tame her had succeeded. When they reached the harbor her deadened eyes lifted slightly, and she glanced in the direction of the town hopefully. She delayed the ship's departure until the last possibly minute, standing at the edge of the dock with restless energy. "I do not believe he is coming, Miss Swann," Her uncle whispered in her ear, ushering her onto the ship, "Do no make a spectacle of yourself. You are delaying your trip."

Elizabeth did not have the heart anymore to disobey him. She did not go below deck as the sailors rushed about sailing the vessel from the harbor, but stood with an arm curled around the mast, her body pressed against it for support. The sun rose and filled the sea with sparkling lights as the flagship swiftly cut through the swells and the town of Port Royal shrank to a speck on the horizon, and then was gone.  
  
A/N: well there ya go, major plot turning point numero dos; one of many in this fic. Thank you so much to all who reviewed, and to the few new readers, welcome!


	9. Prodigal Apprentice Revealed

A/N: I've decided to answer a few reviews I've gotten-Writer-reader relations are sooo important.  
**Araminta Ditch:** me too!  
**Daystar:** Yes, Will is totally slipping up on his sneaking skills. Reads the part about awesome talent and blushes  
**Jack E:** I completely agree-I wasn't planning on being this frustrated with Willie when I outlined this fic. I stress: Boys. Are. Stupid. (not insulting any guy readers out there!:)) Oh yeah, to answer your earlier question: I attend the Church of Christ (not to be confused with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Am not Mormon.). Larrikin: Glad you like it! Yah, Will's an idiot. **Loyal Fan:** Awesome! I've never had someone tell me that they were my loyal fan. You're a first! Thanks a lot for the nice review--number 70! Well, since I have Spanish, you're numero setenta! Anyhow, I really appreciate it.  
On Christopher's age--I didn't know either! When the story started out he was just an apprentice-age kid. I'm guessing that's around twelve or thirteen, but for the character's purpose in the story, he's around 14-16. (I'm putting Elizabeth at 18 and Will at 20--even though they looked about the same age as kids in the movie).  
  
Chapter 9  
  
Will walked amongst the wreckage of the blacksmith shop with his hands trembling in shock of the destruction. His iron tools were untouched, but things such as leather and wood were burnt clean off of them, rendering most useless. A black skeleton of the shop stood there on the street; the roof had caved in, and charred refuse covered the dirt floor. The walls were barely standing, supported only by the surrounding shops, some of which had also been damaged by the fire. Will could salvage little from what once had been a flourishing trade-an anvil here, a hammerhead there, some swords without hilts, some iron tongs; very little with which to start over.

His hands were shoved in his pockets, eyes surveying the damage quietly. He rummaged around in his pocket, finding Elizabeth's engagement ring there. He examined the simple band of gold pensively; it suddenly occurring to him the irony of a gold ring being the last thing manufactured in a blacksmith shop. He looked up, eyes to the harbor. Elizabeth's ship was long gone, and his only livelihood was burnt to ashes. He slowly replaced the ring in his pocket, gazing once more at the seared remains of his shop.

Balling his fists, he strode from the site determined to look forward-for it did no good to dwell on things beyond his control. His focus before had been his work-Elizabeth was more like a lofty goal than his life. Like the fire had swept away any remnants of that past life, so it had cleared his head of its cloudy thoughts, giving him a keen sight to a plan of action. As he walked along the narrow streets, several of his former patrons, the wealthier sort, stopped him, offering condolences and generous contributions. Will merely pocketed the money and thanked the men mechanically, knowing full well he now had plenty of money to rebuild the shop many times over and that he would never purchase wood nor iron with it.  
  
Christopher's job was finished. There was absolutely no way that the fire could be accredited to him-for how uncommon was it for a blacksmith's shop to catch fire? He stood on the outskirts of the square where Port Royal residents scrambled for water and some of the bolder thieves looted the shop. His conscience was finally catching up to him, and his heart beat erratically in his chest at his loss of what to do. Smoke burned his nostrils as the roof caved in and flames leapt up over the rubble like sirens over the remains of a ship dashed on rocks.

His master darted between the townspeople, taking in the sight of his beloved shop in flaming ruins. Those in the process of bringing more water halted, their eyes turned. As the flames fell lower some rushed forward and beat them out with wet sacks, steam hissing and rising from the blackened remains. The crowd began to disperse; though some stayed in attempt to offer solace to Will. He waved them away, though, and began to pick his way through the mess.

Christopher retreated down the alley, unable to watch the sight any longer. He wandered into a tavern, finding it empty of customers. He found the house where Laurie worked as a scullery maid during the day, locating her in the back scrubbing linens. Her light hair escaped their white cap and hung in strings about her face, which was lightly colored pink with exertion. Her gray eyes looked up and found him standing near her as she worked the stains out of last night's tablecloth, his face heavy with trouble.

"What is it? You know not to bother me at work. I will be in the tavern this evening." She looked down to her work again, her back heaving as she found the stain a resilient one.

"I carried through with my promise." He said miserably, blatantly craving her touch.

"Do you have any more money?"  
"No."

"Go away." She watched him coolly with eyes devoid of any of the previous night's fervor.

Christopher was rooted to the spot, unable to take his gaze from her. He bent and attempted to collect her in his arms, but she struck out at him forcefully, eyes flashing angrily.

"I am only a whore at night, sir." She gestured to the blue sky and golden sun. "I have other work to do. Do not hinder me." Stepping from him, she gathered her washing and exited the courtyard. He looked after her, arms falling slowly to his side. He turned on his heel and wandered away, feeling intensely the pang of one without a purpose in life.  
  
Will quickly sold the shop property to a sympathetic businessman. The man had offered a generous amount for the small plot, but Will beat him down to a minimal cost-after all, he could accept only so much charity. Night had fallen as he made his way to his tenement, and he coughed as he kindled the fire for tea, his eyes smarting unnaturally at the thin wreaths of smoke. Sitting at the scrubbed wood table, he rubbed his sore eyes, finding tears trickling between his fingers-tears that stemmed not only from the dryness of the smoke, but from the defenselessness he suddenly felt in his heart.

The gold ring sat on the table before him, glinting sweetly in the crimson light cast by the kitchen fire. He stared at the simple band that personified love-to be worn on the left hand, nearest the heart; a circle that never ended, and love that continued after death. His eyes began to smart again, and he fisted the ring and laid his head on his crossed arms, shutting his vision to cool darkness.

_He could imagine her standing there beside the hearth, half her face silhouetted in darkness, the other half smiling and glowing with firelight. On one finger glinted the ring, accompanied by another band bearing a single pearl. She held this hand out to him, beckoning, and the side of her face visible smiling alluringly, a few curls escaped from a white cap and framing her face. Her lips mouthed his name; the sound reaching his ears like a faint, distant whisper lost on the wind. _

_The image shifted then, to one of Elizabeth perched on a stool before the hearth, one of her beloved books wrapped in the velvety layers of her gown and held open by a firm hand. His inner eye fell upon himself, to see that a small child was cuddled in his lap, a pair of large, innocent eyes looking from his mother to his father with an adoring air. The dream-Will bent his head and murmured something to the child, then began to sing a tune softly, one that drew the child's mother from the confines of her book to smile at the pair of them, her own gentle alto harmonizing with his crooning tenor. _

_As Will observed the warm scene, it suddenly shifted again, to where it was if he looked inside a slightly frosted window, standing outside in a snowfall. The house that he looked inside was made of brick, and had sharp angles and leering statues flanking it. A man sitting in a straight-backed chair and wearing a wig was poring over a periodical, paying little attention to the squalling baby held in a maid's arms. Will started when he looked to the chair opposite the man and saw that it was his own Elizabeth, dressed in fine raiment and anxiously watching her child. She tentatively reached out a hand to calm the child, but a sharp reprimand came from her husband, "Do not fuss over the child, Elizabeth. You have no cause to spoil your clothes or muss your hair. Attend to your sewing, if you must." He turned a page and said no more. Elizabeth retracted her hand, but did not allow her eyes to fall for several minutes, her back straight and poised as if to jump up at any moment. At last she sighed and fell back to her needlework, stealing a longing gaze towards the bookshelf, a place she had been forbidden. _

_The Will standing outside the window hunched his shoulders and moved off into a snowy and dirty street, when suddenly he was standing in a cool meadow with willowy shade trees beneath which finely-dressed nobles sat. Elizabeth lounged beneath the one nearest him, her hair streaked with gray and a few lines gracing her still-beautiful face. Her eyes, though, did not sparkle as she seemingly did, no matter how animatedly she chatted with the companion sitting with her. _

_Her eldest daughter, a beautiful blonde child of twelve, sat demurely in the outskirts of the shade, her rosebud lips pursed in a delicate scowl. The girl held a plump toddler in her white-swathed lap, and the toddler was reaching eagerly for a lace ruffle, fully prepared to rip it off and push it into his mouth. The blonde child slapped the small hand away, earning an unappreciative roar from the baby. _

_"Mother!" The girl cried, as the screaming child now grabbed for a blonde curl. Elizabeth looked up from her conversation, a flicker of sadness, then annoyance glinting in onyx eyes. _

_"Sit still, Clara. A lady does not raise her voice." She said quietly, taking up her knitting of a lace item. The blonde girl closed her mouth abruptly, casting angry eyes down to the now drooling toddler, making the smallest sound of disgust in her throat. _

_Will watched as a tall, sandy-headed youth trotted from a game with his friends to the circle of ladies sitting in the shade. He looked to be a few years older than his flaxen-headed sister was, his fair cheeks boasting some freckles and slight sunburn. _

_"Mother, I want to take Sahib out with Herald and Adderwhip" he said matter-of-factly casting a hard gaze upon Elizabeth. _

_Elizabeth's eyes did not meet his, as if she were afraid to question the authority of a grown son. "You know that you are not to take Father's prize horse out, especially with that beast of Lord Faulkner's." She responded in the same low voice, still not meeting his eyes. _

_"Oh, hang Father's wishes. Sahib is the greatest horse in England, and Herald's on again about how Adderwhip's great-grandfather was the King's war-horse." He flounced off without another word. Elizabeth drew a breath, as if willing herself to cast aside her worry and take up indifference. It was then quiet in the meadow for a few moments, until the toddler began misbehaving again. _

_The image began to blur and extort as there was a rush of hooves, then a sickening thud and Elizabeth's mangled cry. Will caught a glimpse of a bleeding sandy head beneath a snorting black beast, before he woke._

A sound at the door drew Will from his troubled slumber, to see his apprentice standing at the threshold, looking worse for wear and unnaturally fidgety.  
  
Christopher had been traversed all of Port Royal that day, his hunger as well as guilt growing in a knot in his stomach. Every time someone mentioned 'fire' or 'blacksmith', he would bolt, usually losing any food he had managed to beg or pilfer in a bucket of water or feeding trough. It had grown dark, and he had suffered in a cold dark corner of an alleyway until he willed himself to approach his master, though the guilt might kill him for returning to the man whose life he had ruined.

He found Will asleep at the table, moaning in his sleep. A board creaked as he stepped inside the threshold, rousing the blacksmith to gaze at him with bloodshot eyes and a slack mouth. The apprentice tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. Will rubbed his eyes with a dirty palm and stood, rummaging in the sideboard for a morsel of food-a rind of cheese, a hunk of bread, a mealy apple-anything.

"Sit." He croaked, filling a tumbler with steaming tea and placing the hard end of a loaf of bread before the weary youth. "You can soften the crust in your tea, if you like." Will said absentmindedly, sitting opposite the boy.

Christopher eyed the bread longingly for a moment, but he found that despite his hunger he could not eat. "I have something to tell you." He blurted, forcing himself to meet his master's eyes.

Will considered the apprentice as if seeing him for the first time. "What is it?"

The boy swallowed, but to no avail--the lump had grown larger. "Were you able to catch Miss Swann?" He queried; the words slow and selected.

Will's brow knitted. "How did you know of that?"

A blush came to the boy's cheeks, reminding Will forcibly of the unfortunate boy in his dream-could it be called a dream? Vision? Apparition?

Feeling wary of the inevitable, Christopher offered a hurried explanation. "Oh, ah, I was outside the shop just as you started for the harbor to detain the lady."

"You were there? Assuredly you saw the cause of the fire!" Will's tired eyes gleamed, one hand gripping the table.

Christopher nodded miserably. He stood suddenly, making for the door, to his master's bewilderment.

"Christopher? You may tell me." Will stood after him, reaching out and clamping a hand on the boy's thin shoulder.

The apprentice turned round, a terrified expression on his face. "I dare not tell you." He whispered fearfully.

"No harm will come to you, I assure you. All I request is an answer." Will pleaded, placing his other hand firmly on the boy's shaking collar. Christopher bit one already worried lip, then gave a childlike sniffle. His master frowned, adding to the perplexed expression on his face.

The apprentice drew a shuddering breath, "It was me," he whispered, closing his eyes as if in pain. He felt his master step away abruptly, and he slowly opened his lids to comprehend the countenance written on Will's face.

Confusion. Anger. Disbelief. Christopher gazed upon the dumbfounded blacksmith for a moment, then turned on his heel and disappeared from the tenement, fading quickly into the shadows of the night.

Will watched the place where Christopher disappeared for a few speculative moments. He groaned and stretched himself in his hard chair once more, unable to truly comprehend what he had just heard. He found it easier to convince himself that it had been some other Christopher that destroyed his shop-some other William that crushed his Elizabeth-some other William that rushed back to salvage a lost cause. Perhaps he could convince himself that all of this was a long, terrible nightmare that would flee when this prolonged night at last ended.  
  
The apprentice rushed back to the nest of piled rags and splintered wood at the end of the darkest alleyway, burying himself beneath the refuse. Christopher's path had skilled him to look into the eyes of an adult and read an outcome-thus he could discern when to duck for fear of being struck, or when to bow his head to endure a tirade, or when to console eminent tears. The look in Will's eye had been blank, and that frightened the apprentice more than the angry flash that denoted a bruised cheek.

Christopher huddled in his rags until the chill of dawn crept to the horizon, and he at last felt the stabbing pains of hunger in his young belly. His feet were sore as well as his back and legs from crouching the long, cool hours. He was in no shape to pick any pocket or slip any lone apple from a fruit stand.

He needed money-not just a few shillings or ha'pennies--but real money, enough to buy him room and board and a few meals until he could acquire a position. He recalled to mind the elderly baron. Yes, the man had been overbearing and snappish, but he had been generous in paying the apprentice to carry out the miserable act. Surely now that it was accomplished, he would pay him further in thanks? Christopher set his will to find the gentleman and obtain the needed currency.

Once the sun had fully risen and the Town of Port Royal awoken, he set off for the area of town where the lofty mansions rose above manicured gardens and cobbled walkways. He felt a slight optimism rising in his breast, and quickened his step as he caught sight of the handsome buildings.

Glad to find the gate open, he hurried to the door and rapped smartly, a grin spreading across his face as a pretty maid opened the door. She eyed him with some suspicion.

"What can I do for ye?"

"I would care to speak to the lord of the household, if you please." He replied cheerily, looking beyond her shoulder into the richly furnished house.

"His Almighty Presumptuous Grace would speak to ye?" She asked incredulously. Christopher frowned, making to push his way into the house.

"I have a small business matter to settle with him. Please allow me inside." He said with some urgency, but the audacious smile remained. Her frown deepened.

"Sir, I hope ye know what ye are getting yourself into. Are ye sure ye have the right residence?" She reluctantly let him inside the house, keeping a firm eye on the valuables glinting beneath their white covers.

"I am quite sure I am correct." He assured, shoving his hands in his pockets matter-of-factly.

The pretty maid nodded grimly. "I'll see to it, then. Stay here." She moved from the entrance hall to a room out of sight. Christopher took the opportunity to glance around the riches of the late governor's household, his fingers twitching irritably, as if chiding him for putting them away in his pockets.

There was a low sound of dissent from the other room, and the maid emerged with the pained expression of "I told you so," and scuttled from the hall, clutching her cheek as if having been slapped.

"What entered you simple mind to return here?" A voice bellowed, followed soon after by a forceful wrench on his shoulder. Christopher met the baron's livid eyes, his muscles arresting in fear.

"I had though to ask for further payment." He gulped, voice barely over a whisper.

"Squandered it all on women and drink, eh? I gave you payment enough." He released his shoulder, resuming a calm but ominous mien. "I trust you have carried through with my instructions?"

"Yes," the apprentice replied, somewhat hopefully, "it burned to the cobblestones."

The baron nodded, a small smile crossing his lips then dissipating into a sneer. " I cannot presume you had the effrontery to return here, to ask favor of a man like me." He said this more to himself, and continued, "Unmistakably, you still have much to unearth of the world."

He had been pacing and halted near the stairs, cold eyes surveying the boy. Two male servants entered from a back room, followed by the pretty maid, whose eyes sought his apologetically.

"Remove this scoundrel from my sight." The baron barked, exiting the hall to his study, where the ruffle of papers could be heard. Christopher darted for the door, but the servants had already grabbed hold of his arm, and were forcing him onto a chair, where he sat awaiting the royal militia to cart him off to some pit of despair.  
  
Will awoke near noon, a sharp sound in the alleyway waking him from his uncomfortable sleep with his head on the table. His muscles screamed in pain as he extended them, his mouth stretching wide with a yawn. Looking around him he observed the tumbler of Christopher's cold tea and the dried crust of bread. He frowned as he struggled to remember the events of the night. As he splashed his face with cold water he remembered with a start, and got his shirt rather wet as he rose from the bucket.

He glanced down at the shirt to wring the water from it and stopped, seeing the muslin streaked with soot and ash. His head throbbed as he changed it for a cleaner one, the thoughts hurting as much or more than his muscles.

One he had looked after; taught; trusted had betrayed him. With this anger at Christopher came sudden concern as he remembered the boy's dashing away after his confession. Will knew the boy to be flighty and reckless, and prayed that he had not found more trouble. Despite the urge to give his apprentice a sound beating and multitude of tedious chores, his worry masked it, adding finding the boy to the growing list of tasks he had for the day.

Will supposed he would come across Christopher at some alehouse or possibly the wharf, so he decided to attend to another matter-securing passage to England.

He needed a direct route-not a cheap sanction aboard a freight vessel that would make a hundred stops and add two months to a one-month passage. Affluent merchant ships were onerous to secure passage on, and Will was not in the highest arc of society to achieve that. He needed the help of a nobleman or an officer of the gentry.

Will made for the fort, which was a lengthy crossing through Port Royal. He walked quickly through the streets, dodging carts and maneuvering about crowded stalls. The streets were teeming on the Saturday afternoon, and the throng only grew denser about the square. His fast pace was slowed to a near stroll, the sun beating down unmercifully upon his dark head. The air was thick with the stench of human sweat, humidity, poultry feathers, and animal dung. He bent his head and breathed into his sleeve-he was accustomed to the hot and musty but relatively clean air of the shop, and had seldom been on the streets at the height of market day.

The crowd before him slowed to a stop. Will halted and stood on his toes to see above their heads, craning brusquely to see the source of the congestion. A thick crowd gathered around a slowly moving cart full of felons doomed for the fort prison. It was having difficulty making its way through the dense market day throng, and was causing even more congestion. It seemed to Will that he stood there for hours, but eventually the crowd began to move again, and he slipped through the bustle as quickly as possible in the direction of the fort.

He arrived just as the gates were beginning to close after the cart. He slipped through them and entered the square stone courtyard. Red-garbed guards stood erect at the two columns that supported the arch over the main gates. Their boots glistened faintly in the hot midday light, and the metal of their bayonets glinted fiercely. Will approached one cautiously, squaring his shoulders and straightening his jerkin.

"Where might I find Commodore Norrington?" He asked politely of the guard with a plain, blunt face.

"What is your business with him, good sir?" The guard replied with a heavy Yorkshire accent.

"'Tis a seafaring matter." He answered, speaking over the clatter of the prisoners in the cart.

Plainly, the officer was a young one, and hurried off to find his commander, glad of a break in the monotonous routine of the fort. Will's attention turned to the cart, and he started when he saw his own prodigal apprentice shoved from the rickety cart to the flagstones, his lip split and bleeding.

"Get up!" The jailer commanded roughly, hauling the boy up by the chains dangling at his wrists.

Will was at his apprentice's side in an instant, ignoring the wide and fearful eyes now gawking up at him.

"What do you think to be doing, sir?" The jailer sniffed, surveying the blacksmith with little interest.

"I wish to know why my apprentice has sentence to the prison." Will replied quietly, but his eyes flashed ominously.

"Orders of the Baron himself. Seems your lad here has been after His Lordship's money and intruded upon the governor's mansion."

Christopher whimpered as he felt his master stiffen beside him, the comprehension registering with him angrily.

"What is the warrant fee?"

The apprentice openly gaped between the two men as the jailer announced a price far beyond what he had been paid to bring about his master's downfall. He shared a hearty laugh with his fellow guards and moved to take Christopher from Will's side. His master's arm shot out and hindered his hand, pushing back and causing the jailer to take a few steps in retreat.

"Here, now!" The jailer bellowed, gripping his bayonet in wrath.

"What is the problem?" A cool, crisp voice queried behind them. Will turned to see the Commodore standing regally beside the plain-faced officer, his face free of any emotion.

"This man says he's going to pay this miscreant's warrant fee. Lord knows no soul possesses that amount,"

"It would seem Mr. Turner does." The Commodore interjected impassively as Will pulled a heavy bag of gold crowns from his pocket. Christopher's jaw fell agape in disbelief, as did the jailer's.

"No lad's worth this." The jailer murmured as he secured the money and drawing a key from the ring at his waist. Christopher's irons were released from his wrists and the slim boy thrust at his master with further muttering.

"Now that this matter is settled, I believe Mr. Turner has other business with me. Would you care for your apprentice to be looked after by one of my men?" Norrington nodded to his lieutenant and turned on his heel, meaning for the blacksmith to follow.

They strode the length of the fort until the officer came to a thickset wooden door, which was held open by a neatly clad sailor. Will and Norrington stepped into an formally furnished office that sported countless maps pasted on the walls with black ink scrawl marking old traveling routes, patterns in pirate attacks, and important locations in the Caribbean. A new map was spread on the desk along with several leather-bound ledgers of the harbormaster's rosters. Norrington sat behind the desk and opened a ledger, his drooping eyes moving methodically down the list.

"My lieutenant said you had a seafaring need."

Will nodded, his eyes occupied with taking in the impressive collection of maps. "I have necessity of a ship departing for England at the most immediate date."

"What cause do you have to depart for England so quickly?" The Commodore looked up expectantly, as if having prior knowledge to the answer. Will's eyes dropped to his feet before replying quietly, "I have proceedings to settle with Miss Swann."

Norrington's glare became pronounced. "I thought as much." He continued to glower accusingly at the blacksmith before he continued, "There is a small spice company shipping out tomorrow for London. They have need of a midshipman for the trip. You would receive a small wage while on board, but have no obligation to remain with the company after arriving in port."

Will extended a hand. "I accept the position." Norrington took it and they shook briefly, before the Commodore replaced the ledger with its brethren and prepared to leave the office.

"A word of advice," He said quietly as he motioned Will out of the room, "Find Elizabeth hastily upon arriving in England. She will be obligated to marry, and will not remain unwed for long in her family's company. She can only assail them for so long."

Norrington then adopted his cool visage and escorted Will to the gates of the Fort and departed without a last look. The blacksmith found Christopher and they exited the fort, Will not sanctioning the apprentice a single word.

At long last the boy asked, "Why would you pay such a fee for me; one who has betrayed your trust and ruined you?"

It was a long while before Will replied, "Because you are yet a child, and granting you a life in irons will not shape you into a proper citizen. I give you your life back, but you are to decide what you would do with it." He said no more.  
  
Will arrived at the harbor in the early hours of the day as the vessel was being loaded. The script on her side read The Euterpe cheery red script. As he made his introductions to the crew and inspected the varnished deck, he thought it ominous that it bore only fifteen guns. Nonetheless, he pitched in heartily in detaching the ship from the dock and climbed the rigging earnestly, glad to feel the cool breeze off the sea.

It was near late afternoon when a black speck appeared on the horizon, the Euterpe having been on open water alone for several hours. The wind had slowed sufficiently, and the ship moved slowly through the water, the sails giving half-hearted snaps and the boards creaking torpidly. Will watched the black speck with anxiety, his stomach lurching when he recognized the shape of a large war ship cutting swiftly through the wave

s. When the vessel was a third of a league away, he observed oars being protracted from the hull and lowered into the water. Will's mouth went dry as he recognized the imminent--a pirate attack.

A/N: It seems to get harder and harder to update quickly as football season progresses. Don't worry, I'll try not to let a month go by without updating or anything, but I don't think I'll be making any bi-weekly deadlines any time soon.

Anyho, I hope you liked this chappy, even though Liz was not in it. I thought that I needed to devote a chapter to the wrapping up of the Will/Christopher partership. Review! I love them!


	10. Shadows and Sunsets

A/N: So, so sorry. I guess I lied about making the monthly deadline thing. Oh well. Have been busy participating in marching band contests, drill team fund-raisers, and, oh yeah, all my extracurricular activities. I guess school's thrown in there somewhere. Speaking of band contests, when did every single school in Texas decide to do Pirates of the Caribbean as their marching show? They can't even play the music up to tempo, much less scrape a 1 (a 1 being the best and a 5 being the worst) I love PotC, but do I really need to hear the main theme played a million times out of tune, tempo, or style? I opened up a blog! Yay! Go to for more complaining and cool pictures. On with the voyage!  
  
Chapter 10  
  
The white sails at the top of the mainmast strained against their restraints like falcons yearning to scale the utmost height. The wind shoved against them urgently, and they heaved and snapped as one gasping for air. The prow of the flagship cut through the swells, sending a fine spray over the bowsprit and onto the deck. The sea churned white and teal blue with green at the tips of the waves that dashed themselves against the vessel. It was a resplendent and stirring spectacle and Elizabeth despised it. It was as though the complement of the world wished her swift passage to England, away from her beloved yet--she was still livid with him. He had failed her in every way conceivable, and had thrown her love for him into the ash of his hearth. But despite this animosity she felt another ache-the pain of his absence. It was an obscure and perplexing pathos, causing a discontent to build and bloom gloomily within her, so that it was nearly impossible for her to be quiescent.  
As she strode the deck she allowed herself to weigh these thoughts, her brow furrowed pensively and her hands clasped with some difficulty behind the voluminous bulk of her skirt. She missed the way his chocolate orbs shone especially for her, the way he regarded her with quiet reserve, as though thoroughly loving the smallest detail about her. She missed his rough hand on her own; she missed his rare exuberant laugh and twinkle of mischief in his eyes.  
She gave a small growl in her throat as she thought of his pitfalls-his weakling manner around those of higher stature, his insufferable notion to please those whom he had no business pleasing, his single-minded and rash fixation on her. It was his fault that she had complied so readily with her uncle, as was it his fault that she would not be returning to him.  
Her feet carried her the length of the mid-deck and she now climbed the steps to the forecastle and bowsprit, the spray pleasant on her slightly burnt cheeks. She stood with her arm resting on the nicked balustrade, her toes curled in attempt to make traction to accommodate the pitching and rolling of the deck. She stood there for a length of time, until she found herself leaning over the edge and letting the contents of her stomach fall into the sea. Swallowing the remnants of bitter bile, she wiped her mouth and fell against the balustrade, clutching her knees. Casting her eyes heavenward, she watched the slow, sinuous rippling of the clouds until it calmed her dizzy state.  
Elizabeth could only remember scant memories of seasickness in her life, and none had been as unpleasant as this. She moaned softly as the sea continued to rock her innards unconscionably. She tucked her head into the thick folds of her dress, cursing the sun as it beat brazenly upon her hair. She was able to contort her face into some semblance of a smile as she considered the plausible reaction of the Baron to her boorish position on the deck.  
"Miss?" A rasping voice punctured the thick air above her. She glanced up, squinting to observe the cabin boy hovering there erratically. He extended a crude wooden cup to her. "I thought you might care for some water."  
She contemplated the youth-he could not be but a year or so her junior, but somehow, Elizabeth felt years his elder. She parted her parched lips in reply. The water was wonderfully cool and sweet on her tongue, and some of it ran down her chin in her zeal. Finishing the cup off, she returned it to his hand--which she perceived with a start--that was callused and rough.  
"Thank you."  
The boy surveyed her for a moment, mouth slack but not agape. "Would you like me to take you below, Miss?"  
She slowly nodded her forehead against her palm. She leaned heavily on his arm as he guided her across the deck, until she found her footing and steadied herself. He led her not to the spacious cabin provided for her, but to the steps that led to the sailor's quarters, hold, and galley. He proceeded into the narrow space that was the galley as she seated herself with some difficulty onto a crate of sailor's bread. She bent double and clutched her stomach as the ship produced another lurch. The air in the galley was musty and stale, giving no aid to her condition.  
"I fear the only cure to your ailment will be the passing of the days, but sometimes a spot of ale will settle the stomach." He informed emerging from rummaging in the open crates that lay helter-skelter about the galley.  
Elizabeth grasped the ale offered and took a few tentative sips. The ale was of lesser quality, and diluted for frugality's sake. Nonetheless it served to abate the convulsions of her stomach moderately, and palliated her mind off its fetish on her woebegone state. Placing the drink beside her, she looked up and considered her attendant.  
"What is your name?"  
"Ned Pennar" He replied simply, suddenly awkward at her consideration.  
"Where do you hail from, Ned?" She pressed as she steadied her feet on the gently rocking floor.  
"Cornwall." He shrugged.  
Elizabeth chuckled at his hesitation. She could not hold him to censure; she had heard scandalous tales of noblewomen seducing peasantry merely to gain their husband's envy and regard from servants and other noblewomen alike.  
"Do not fear my motives, Ned Pennar of Cornwall. I have no ulterior incentive in regards to you."  
He visibly relaxed, allowing the soft lines at the corners of his lips to ease, and the furtive glint to leave his pupils.  
"I am glad of that, M'Lady."  
"How did you come to earn your wage in the Caribbean?"  
Ned paced about the diminutive galley, and though his actions were not excitable, they were ambivalent, and reminded the lady of her belated suitor. "My father is a merchant captain, and sought the riches of the Indies when I was a wee lad. He brings home much every half-year, and thus our family has no want of hunger or poverty." He stopped and allowed a reminiscent glow to warm his cheeks. "I wish the same for my Allyce."  
Elizabeth smiled, but her heart shivered-had Will regarded her with the same soft smile, the same awe-inspired fondness? "Allyce?"  
"Aye. The daughter of my eldest brother's employer-a man of great influence as a shipwright-has agreed to marry me next Midsummer."  
"I count Allyce very fortunate, then, to have ensnared such a suitor. I wish you many blessings." The reply was almost instantaneous, emanating from a lifetime of etiquette and governess' admonition.  
Ned nodded in thanks, then recovered himself, and his propriety. "I should escort you to your cabin, M'Lady." He mumbled, offering her his arm in embarrassment.  
Elizabeth pursed her lips, mourning the loss of a rare quiet moment in her lately bustling life. "I thank you for your relief, Ned. But I can surely find my cabin unattended. Perhaps it is best if you return to your duties."  
Once again he nodded, and surveyed her as she made her way tentatively up the narrow stairs to the upper deck and her lavish quarters. Whilst inside, she collapsed upon the feather mattress and let out a long sigh, feeling her head spin as the sickness returned and she bent over the edge of the bed to rifle for the pail that had been discreetly placed there.  
  
It had been following them for three days. Looming barely a league away, it feigned an innocent merchant vessel, but the crew and Will alike knew better, and the ambiance upon The Euterpe was far more subdued than prevalent. It had extended its oars spontaneously throughout the days, but Will soon recognized it to be merely extortion rather than hailing an attack. It followed the small ship like hawk its prey-sometimes it would allow the ship a lead of two or three leagues, but the next morning it would always be there on the horizon-a storm cloud on the edge of a desert awaiting rain.  
Every morning as Will took a ladle of water from the barrel or an apple from the crate, he saw the shrinking supply and was reminded more and more forcefully of the deadly tactic the pirate's were using. They were allowing the bantam vessel to use the entirety of its modest supply, rendering its valuables an easy target once they made their move. On the fifth day since leaving port, a cold wind blew off the sea from the northwest, and stirred the hearts of the crew like whirlwinds in tall grass. The wind brought the wicked black vessel closer, a numinous figure sailing calmly along the turbid and thrashing billows.  
With the cold wind brought a low, dense fog that clung to the oily water, then slowly crept up and hid the day from The Euterpe. The wild dancing of the waves had ceased, and the sails hung limp upon their yards, the masts creaking and decks groaning. The crew stood immobile on the deck or hung breathless in the rigging, ears pricked for sounds that might be concealed in the mist.  
Will himself was one of those in the rigging, his body tense and poised like a cat's lithe form, prepared to hurl himself upon any enemy that dared to present themselves. His heart rattled in the cage of his ribs as the murky form of the other ship pulled alongside the merchant vessel. It seemed almost like a specter's ship, sailed by the devil's hand himself. The sound of the sailor's boots shuffling apprehensively on the deck below sounded aberrantly loud to his craning ears, every sharp intake of breath deafening him.  
There was the splash of an anchor being hurled into the sea and then a subtle creaking of wood and rattling of metal. Will looked anxiously down to the crew, praying that someone-anyone was preparing for the emanating battle, but no, they were wide-eyed rabbits perched at the edge of a den. Cursing under his breath, Will scuttled down the rigging hurriedly, his boots hitting the deck with such force that the stunned crew was shaken from their reverie.  
"Muster the cannons! Take up arms! Your very lives depend upon it!" He cried, shattering the cold, silent ambiance. The deck erupted into action-cannons were wheeled and tied to their defensive positions, pistols, cutlasses, and rifles were tucked into belts, and great kegs of powder were rolled from the depths of the hold and emptied into weapons. As the men primed, they all watched the strange blacksmith as he made the most efficient use of his time, quickly finding those more experienced in battle and organizing the crew into ranks.  
This all covered the spans of a few minutes, and while the crew managed to prepare somewhat quickly, they were no equivalent of a pirate band. Iron balls whistled and boomed over the heads of the men, who ducked and returned fire. The pirate ship had a far superior advantage, and it was only a matter of time before the mizzenmast splintered and crashed upon the quarterdeck. In the confusion, a ramp was positioned between the battling ships, and a few ratty scoundrels leaked aboard and slit the throats of The Euterpe's first victims.  
Will, who was in the process of reloading his rifle, grabbed a pouch of shot and a powder horn and lit up the nearest rigging, clutching the ammunition in his teeth. He perched on the mainsail yard and finished loading the rifle, then held it poised to blast any enemy within range. Suddenly, a squawk broke his concentration, and he glanced to his right to see a bold, blue-and-gold plumed parrot, whose large, intelligent eyes observed him with reproach. Will nearly dropped the weapon in his hands, staring at the comical creature with disbelief.  
"Dead men tell no tales." It cried harshly, flapping its turquoise wings urgently. The bird leapt forward and dug its talons into Will's hands, causing the rifle to fall from his fingers and into the fray below. Feeling sick, he looked down to see the firearm caught in the brown, ringed hand of none other than Jack Sparrow.  
  
It had been little over a week and a half since the governor's flagship exited Port Royal, and life aboard had grown dull. With naught but the cold, dim waters of the Atlantic before the ship, Elizabeth felt her mood grow increasingly somber. She had saved her books for later in the voyage on the fact that she was a fairly quick reader, and thus all she had to occupy her time was following her maid's suggestion-repairing the ripped and frayed items of her wardrobe. It was medial and tedious work, but she found that stitching out on deck in the sun and wind served to lighten the burden of the task considerably.  
Ned accompanied her whenever his duties allowed, and even though she might make little to no progress on her stitching-for it was almost disconcertingly easy to make an error and thus have to take out the entire seam and begin again--she at least was able to keep her sanity.  
As Elizabeth spent time with the cabin boy, she was elated to find that she did not hold him in comparison to Will. Perhaps it was because although Ned and Will were very aware of their lower social position, Ned was not encouraged to act above his station, and was able to fit into his niche comfortably. Elizabeth often felt that Will struggled with himself far more than was healthy-he was trying to put a glove on an elbow and a pistol into a scabbard. Yet, this was why Elizabeth loved him, for his incompetence in delicate matters was endearing and honest-he did not try to hide his deficiencies behind pompous jackets and porcelain masks. With Will Elizabeth felt ease and perturbation clash, and it made for a much wilder and passionate--interesting relationship. With Ned she felt the kind of comfort worn books and hot tea offered--familiarity, routine, a small amount of apathy, and amiable warmth. He was an average cabin boy with no great ambition, and pathway for which Elizabeth to reestablish her sense of rationality and practicality.  
Breaking from her reverie, Elizabeth looked down to her stitching on a hem to be uneven, with small knots pulling at the thread and fraying the garment further. With a sigh, she reached for the small silver knife nestled in the sewing basket and ripped the threads out with exasperation. Hearing a chuckle, she looked up to observe Ned's grinning expression.  
"Your thread seems not to agree with your needle this morn, M'Lady." He remarked from his knelt position on the deck. Elizabeth sat perched on the steps that led from mid deck to the poop deck, the former of which Ned was scrubbing.  
"Alas, it does not agree any day." She sighed, and crumpled the sewing, placing it in a heap beside her on the step.  
"You are thinking of him again, are you not, Miss?"  
She turned her head sharply in his direction.  
"Pitiably, yes." She rested her head in one hand that perched on her knee, the other toying with the pleated hem of her skirt. She was quiet for a length of time, and Ned bent down to continue scrubbing, then she spoke.  
"I miss him. I feel impotent and dependent for doing so, but still he consumes my thoughts night and day." She glanced up at her companion. "Do you pine for Allyce so terribly?"  
Ned set the brush and holystone down thoughtfully.  
"I found it very hard to think of much else for many months. I found the sea a large, empty place where my thoughts ran rampant." He looked at her with a comforting smile. "You are a lady of a busy, high society, Miss. I doubt you will have much time for yearning once the ship docks in England." He bent to his work again, the scraping and hissing of brush and holystone filling the stillness that rang in her ears.  
  
It was a face that had haunted the back of his darkest dreams for weeks. A face that was chiseled into an auspicious mask of deception and cunning. Its dark eyes focused on the rifle clutched in his outstretched hand, a hint of a smirk playing about the corners of the mouth. Metallic teeth winked in the grin, with minuscule sparks reflecting the battle about it. His cheekbones were emblazoned with small scars as relics from previous skirmishes. A smudge of goatee ran about the borders of his muzzle and jaw, and his black brows were knit together in contemplation. It was a face that perceived much and neglected little.  
Jack Sparrow's hand twirled the rifle in his long, callused fingers, and then he placed it at his side, and glanced up to the place from which it had fallen. The fog was so thick that Will's face was slightly obscured, though the blacksmith had little trouble seeing the pirate's face. Jack's lips pursed in a frown, and then he turned his head and plunged into the battle on deck.  
The sailors of The Euterpe had little chance against the crew of the Black Pearl, and thus it took few slit throats to fulminate their surrender. No one heeded Will, though. He was weapon-less, and sat upon the mainsail yard as though cinched there. Jack strolled about the mid deck with leisure, every eye of the merchant crew fixed on him.  
Crates and barrels of goods were emptied from the hold by Jack's pirates and stowed on the Pearl. He personally broke into the captain's quarters and took the private supply of gold, his manic grin spread wide. The wind picked up, and the dark indigo English jack caught the breeze and flew away from its limp form draped across its bindings. The fog rolled away, leaving the bewildered sailors blinking in bright sunlight, and a few swells began to rock the ship heartily.  
Jack eagerly looked up to reveal the identity of the high-perched sailor, and his caliginous eyes expanded with consternation. Turning to a nearby pirate, he discarded of his jacket, then proceeded to the rigging below the mainsail and ascended it with agility. Will watched him scaling the rigging with bizarre foreboding.  
Jack's smirking face emerged over the edge of the yard, slightly perspiring with exertion. "Well, well, Mr. Turner," he drawled, "pleasure to be meetin' you here."  
Will acknowledged him with grim receipt. "The same to you sir."  
"Fancy joining the rest of us lads down on deck?" He asked with maddening cheerfulness, as though conversing over tea and cakes.  
The blacksmith nodded stiffly. "If you wish it, Jack."  
"Excellent."  
  
"Care to join me in me office?" Jack held the door of the captain quarters open aboard the Pearl. Will wordlessly followed him inside the cramped, dingy room and squinted in the darkness until a lit taper illuminated Jack's face. The flame floated about in darkness until touched to other unseen wicks, and slowly the room swam into a dim, flickering focus. Jack seated himself behind a nicked, flaking wood table and propped his boots atop it, his hat cocked charmingly to the side and liquid orbs observing Will thoughtfully.  
"What merits your delightful visit, Mr. Turner?"  
"A similar mission than the previous one, if you take my meaning." Will quipped, hands shoved in his pockets dejectedly.  
The smirk dropped from Jack's face like a dead fly.  
"Not bloody Elizabeth is it? Are you so inept as to lose the lass again?"  
"I never lost her the first time." The blacksmith scowled and scuffed a boot against the rough floorboards. He looked up and examined the pirate captain pensively.  
Norrington's efforts to capture the Pearl had taken a blatant toll on Sparrow. His eyes had taken on a sunken look, and his torn clothes hung more loosely on his narrow frame. The attack on the Euterpe had probably been the first in weeks, judging from the condition of the ship itself to the empty bottles and crates littered about the vessel. Jack was fidgety, and his fingers toyed with a worn spyglass laid across the table, as though ready to snatch it up in a moment and peer for any warship sporting the emblem of the navy.  
"Still," Sparrow continued, breaking Will's thought, "One must admit you don't have a considerable ability to hold fast to her." He removed his boots from the table and leaned his elbows forward, hands splayed and touching at the fingertips. "Where has your little bird taken flight to now?"  
"England, to see to her departed father."  
"Aah, I'm terrible sorry to hear that, now." Jack reached for a half-full bottle of rum at arm length and uncorked it, swilling the contents of the cruet before taking a sip. "Don't just stand there looking sorrowful, boy. Draw up a chair and have a drink."  
Will eyed the bottle for a speck of time, then broke his barriers and seated himself at the table and took a swig of the rum, coughing as the draft burned down his throat. Wiping the remnants of drink from his lips with his sleeve, he placed the bottle onto the wood and cleared his throat. "Elizabeth and I disagreed on the matter concerning marriage. Her uncle had come from England and suggested she return there at her father's death. Given our disagreement, she left, and I have recovered my sanity and pursue her ship." He took another sip of rum.  
Jack shook his head, the beads and bangles in his dreadlocks clinking together. "You are bloody stupid when it comes to women William. You follow your heart and your head takes the blow. Gimme my rum back!" He took the bottle from Will's fingers and gulped, shaking his head again at its emptiness.  
"What would you have suggested I done?" Will demanded hotly, already feeling the effects of the alcohol.  
"You should have married the lass like she wanted and then this uncle would have had to let her stay." Jack said frankly while rummaging about the room for more liquor.  
"Few things are that simple, Jack."  
"Many things are simple. It's only a matter of how complicated you see fit to make the situation. Oho, here's a brandy, now, I forgot I had this..." Jack blew the dust off of a long-necked bottle and greedily uncorked it, moistening his lips with his tongue.  
Will observed Jack imbibing the brandy happily, until he spoke, "What are your plans, Captain Sparrow, in regards to me?"  
Jack hiccuped, and shrugged his shoulders. "Plans? Eh, I'll make them later. I'm rather fond of this brandy, see. Can't make no plans while having a proper drink. You'll have to excuse me. Gibbs will see to you." He shooed Will from the quarters and closed the door smartly.  
Will gave a rankled sigh and strode to the balustrade at the edge of the deck and leaned his frame against it. The Euterpe had been dismantled of its weapons and mechanics, leaving it helpless on the open sea. It was degenerating to a speck on the distant horizon, slowly fading into the backdrop of dark purple clouds low in the sky, slightly obscuring a red and gold sunset. It was a somber scene before him, and he had the unsettled feeling of one unsure of one's future blooming in the pit of his stomach.  
  
Elizabeth saw the same sunset from the deck of the flagship, her eyes probing the horizon, where the dark water met the crimson line of the sky. The warm waters of the Caribbean were quickly becoming the rolling billows of the Atlantic, and the winds blowing from the east chilled her body as well as her spirit. Despite Ned's friendliness he could not remove the ache in her heart for Will, her cheerfulness fleeing when daylight faded and the shadows of the night crept in around her. She overtly hoped that the absorbed court life of England would draw a fraction of the sting away, as Ned had advised, but she also knew that somehow she deserved the sting, as, after all, it was not as if she had made it any easier for the blacksmith.  
Elizabeth turned from the sunset and drew her arms about her, memories of the cold winters and rainy summers of the British Isles wafting back from her childhood. She had never thought much of the tropical colony, but now she realized that along with her lover's absence, so to would she miss the Caribbean, though still she felt that her home lay in neither place.  
  
A/N: I forgot to mention I got added to the PotC fanfic listing over at captainjackt85. Am ecstatic. Here's some candy corn if you review.  
Happy Halloween! 


	11. Phantom Memories

A/N: I know, I know. This chappy has been a long time in coming. I hope the flashbacks don't bother readers, because they are an essential part of my story and writing. I find them natural, actually, because the human mind is a complex thing, and we rely on our thoughts and memories to help us relate to situations in the present.

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 11

Will stood at the scarred balustrade for a long time. The blackness of sea and sky had long since merged, and the twinkling of stars could be discerned about the gently swaying silhouette of rigging. The pirates had retired to a saturnalia below deck that consisted of thick, rum-soured air that stank of lewd humor and tobacco smoke. Judging from the snoring exhaled from Jack's cabin, the captain had long since sunk into a drunken stupor.

The blacksmith's soulful eyes were blind in the darkness; his ears attuned to the gentle hissing of the sea and the voices echoing in the mists. With a sigh, he turned from facing the sea to lean his elbows against the railing, chin tilted up and eyes darting from the pinpricks of light painted across the firmament.

_"You can never truly be lost at sea." _

_Will looked over to Elizabeth. Her twelve-year old face was molded into a pensive mask. She bit her bottom lip, and her eyes were focused on the twinkling sky above them. It had been two days since Will's rescue, and he still found her musings peculiar. The two had stolen a few hours as the sailors drank below and her father and his aides dined in the captain's quarters. They lay amongst some coiled rope, hidden and enjoying the solitude. _

_"How is that, Miss Swann?"_

_"Elizabeth." She returned brusquely, wetting her lips, "The North Star never stirs, it is akin to a compass affixed in the heavens."_

_Will, having spent the previous six months aboard a ship, had long since seen the helmsman use a sexton to navigate the intended route. The said helmsman even had the beneficence to instruct Will in the use of the device, though it had felt awkward and ambiguous in the cabin boy's hands. _

_"How does this star help a seaman?" _

_"He uses a sexton," She held her hands before her like Will had once seen a priest bless an infant. Her long fingers bowed and curled to show the device's dimensions, then fell to her side. _

_"I must learn these things, you see, for when I am captain of my own ship. Perhaps I shall meet a pirate." Her eyes shone in the celestial light, then she blinked and it was extinguished. _

_"What falsehoods am I speaking? Father would not even allow me to put my hands upon the helm." She shifted to her side to look at Will, voice low. "But perhaps I have already met a pirate." _

_Will squirmed, then cleared his throat. "Where would you have met such a man, Miss?"_

_She did not speak for a time. The two lay in a silence onerous with tension and then she turned back and lay against the rope. "My fancy, William."_

Will let another long sigh abscond his lips, folding his arms across his chest. A board creaking shattered the enchantment in which he found himself, and he hastened to draw his cutlass. A hand clamped upon the arm gripping the weapon, a gruff voice floating from the shadows. "Put down yer sword, boy. Yer skittish as colt jus' weaned."

Gibbs' face materialized from the gloom as he stepped to the blacksmith's side. He released Will's arm, which fell limp at his side.

"Thinkin' Will?"

He did to reply immediately. The pirate's son shifted his gaze back to the heavens for a pensive moment, then looked back to Gibbs' badger-like face. "Perhaps."

"Thinkin' too much makes a man soft. Especially thinkin' about women." The pirate advised with a shake of his head. "Seems to me like you've an unnatural fixation."

Will cast him a hard look. "Your captain believes it bordering on delusion." He recalled the Sparrow's distaste at the blacksmith's willingness to die for the governor's daughter.

"I have little to anticipate in my life, Mr. Gibbs. I, unlike you, do not seek the riches of the Spanish Main. I merely---want complacency with the time given me."

Again Gibbs shook his head. "There's little o' that to be found with her lot, boy. Pr'aps its simpler to marry a common girl."

"If I loved a common girl, I would not be troubling you."

"Love? 'Tis a fickle thing. A man's heart be deceiving." Gibbs scratched his salt-and-pepper scruff of a beard and took a flask from his tattered shirt. Will watched him take an indecent swig, wipe his mouth on his sleeve, and replace the flask.

"That may be so, but few things are ever certain."

Gibbs shrugged, blatantly wearied of the subject. "Ah, yer troubles can soon be forgotten. Come down below and have a hearty time of it." He lifted the hatch and Will caught a whiff of pipe smoke, ale, and the musty scent of sweat. The door closed, leaving the blacksmith alone once more.

Rain splattered against the windows of the flagship, obscuring Elizabeth's view of the sea. Swells rocked the vessel urgently, though not enough to seriously concern the crew, but Elizabeth had long since grown accustomed to the sensations, and thus was not perturbed. She sat curled in on a divan near one of the cold, wet panes of glass, absorbed in a book. The creamy pages between two handsome red leather covers were filled with detailed ink sketches and paragraphs describing the curiosities of the Americas.

A Spanish monk who had accompanied a recent expedition west of the mountains that bound the British colonies close to the ocean had kept an exclusive chronicle of the trek. The book itself, however, was a contemporary French transliteration of the writings. The monk's descriptions painted a vivid scene in the young woman's mind. Dismal morass filled with mire, grassy pasture that stretched to the edge of the sky, brightly stippled canyons, glittering caverns, and a mighty river that put a stop to the journey for near a week.

Elizabeth looked up from her book and rubbed her eyes. The light was really too dim for reading, now. Glancing out the widow, she beheld that the rain had grown heavier, and that the waves had begun to produce a considerable amount of foam that shone silver at the flash of lightening. The floor beneath her pitched suddenly, and she was thrown forward onto her knees with a thud.

Cursing and rubbing her knee, she noticed the trickle of water that had crept beneath the hatch and made tiny rivulets in the rough wooden floor. The candlelight shone off the surface of the water, and illuminated Elizabeth's abruptly apprehensive face. She got to her feet with some difficulty, as the balance of the room swayed and tilted like the erotic movements of serpent.

A stentorian crack of thunder shook the windows, followed by the cries of men carried on the howling wind. A large wave rocked the vessel, sending Elizabeth tumbling into the bedpost. Her shoulder throbbed, and she already felt a terrific bruise blooming where the wood had struck it. The floor sloped the other direction, and she clung to the post, which was firmly bolted to the floorboards, as the loose articles in the room slid with a crashing halt to the lowest level of elevation. The candlesticks, unfortunately, joined these articles, and the room was plunged into darkness as hot wax splattered the wooden boards.

Helpless now and feeling resentment towards the helplessness, Elizabeth found her footing as the room began to balance somewhat. No sooner had she forced herself from floor than another wave toppled her to her knees. There was a clamorous thumping on the hatch for a second, and then it flew open to reveal Ned thrown against the doorjamb, using all his strength to keep from tumbling into the darkened room. His dark locks were plastered to his head by rain, the whites of his light blue eyes were red with salt water, and his clothes clung to his thin frame, which was strained with effort. Lightening outlined his form and reflected in his eyes, recalling Elizabeth somewhat to Jack Sparrow.

"There's a great squall afoot, M'Lady. Captain's orders that you secure yourself in your cabin." He panted over the clamor.

"What good will that accomplish? If the ship flounders then we are all lost, regardless if I remain—"

"I cannot go against my captain's orders! Likewise, there is little you can do to avail the circumstances." He ran a hand through his tangled, wet hair, causing it to stand on end.

Thoroughly incensed now, Elizabeth opened her mouth to retaliate, but Ned turned his head to hear the bellows of another shipmate, and snapped the hatch shut, muffling the shouts and wind and rain. The sound filled her ears and merged to a dull, incessant roar. She turned on her heel and made her way quickly but carefully to the corner of the room where her belongings had accumulated, and sifted through the mess to find her trunk.

The darkness heightened her senses, and her fingers progressed with some trepidation to the trunk's bindings, fiddling until they found the clasps and flung the lid open. She plunged her hands inside to feel the coarse texture of a pair of breeches she had pilfered from the servants' washing and the secondhand woolen jacket and shirt Norrington had given her aboard the _Dauntless_.

Elizabeth flung her clothes over her head until she stood only in her thin silken shift, which she tucked into the breeches as she pulled them over her slim hips. The shirt she draped unceremoniously over her torso, not caring that it hung open at the neck to reveal the lacy top of the shift. She pulled the jacket over her shivering arms as she kicked her shoes off—knowing them to be a hindrance when it came to rigging.

She gathered her long hair under a cap and pinned it to the curls beneath, then cast the hatch open and trudged into the gale. The rain immediately soaked her and the wind tugged at her arms. The deck was awash with water and foam that swirled about her bare ankles, chilling her feet to icy stubs. Squinting, she discerned the blurred shapes of sailors struggling to furl sails, secure the guns, and one brave soul at the helm aspiring with all his might to keep the ship on its bearings, eyes affixed on the compass on its binnacle.

Lightening split the sky into a thousand jagged pieces, and lit the deck with an ethereal white glow. Elizabeth felt her heart drum a rapid beat in her chest as she wandered blindly across the planking, arms outstretched to grasp anything solid. Her cold fingers encountered and clung to the slippery rigging, and she looked up to observe Ned straddling the topsail yard, striving to furl the sail and secure its lanyards.

Taking in a deep breath and trying to ignore the rain driving mercilessly into her eyes, she mounted the rigging and crept upwards to the angry, swirling black sky, arms and legs growing weary with balancing and pulling her body up into the gusts. Unfurled sails whipped about the masts as they came free of their spars, and one slapped her body so harshly that she nearly dropped off the shrouds. Head spinning, she reached the yard on which Ned perched and curled her arms and legs around it. When her senses had returned and eyesight leveled, she lifted her head and fought off all sense of vertigo.

Ned did not acknowledge her presence, if he even noticed it. His taught arms attempted yet again to secure the topsail with the tackle attached to the yard. He managed to secure one lanyard with a tight knot, but the remaining loose canvas caught the wind and ripped the secured portion from its bindings. Trembling, Elizabeth unclenched her arms from clutching the yard and shakily pushed her torso to an upright position, and gave a small gasp, as the wind seemed to rip at her bones. She strove not to envision a pair of legs limply locked around the yard as the torso spun away on the wind, severed from its limbs.

With her hands finally free, she reached below the yard to grasp for the sail, although as soon as she had, the gale rented it from her fingers. She attempted again, and clutched the drenched sail in both hands, but was almost pulled from the yard and had to release it. The third time she grasped it, she wrenched it towards her bosom and quickly tied the lanyard around it, using a simple bow as she had not the time to remember the one knot she had been taught to tie long ago. Elizabeth gripped the yard and curled her left leg around the secured sail, then unfastened the bow and methodically retied the lanyard into an acceptable fisherman's' knot.

She looked up to see that Ned had finally tied off his portion of the yard, and had progressed along the spar to secure the rest of the sail. He did not even look back to seek the identity of his enigmatic assistant.

Elizabeth bent her head once more; her teeth gritted as the storm assaulted her body in the wake of such an arduous task. Her limbs grew numb as her mind slipped elsewhere, to a memory far past, one that surprised even her in its chosen time to arise.

_"What is happening, Father?" Eight-year-old Elizabeth crept forward to clutch her father's hand, which she found to be hot and gripped hers with crushing force. The air was thick with dust churned up from the pristine grass that surrounded the Swanns' summer estate. The earth beneath her feet rumbled and shook, and her ears were milled with a harangue of high-pitched screams and frenzied snorts. _

_"I desired for you to be in your chambers with Edith performing your French lessons." Weatherby Swann grumbled, pushing the inquisitive girl behind him._

_"J'ai entendu des bruits bruyants." She declared impatiently while wiggling between him and the head groom. _

_"Your mother will not fancy for you to witness this." Her father sighed, and begrudged her an inch with which to peek into the scene before her. _

_Her mother's prized white stallion, Fantôme Chantant, was writhing on the ground in a cloud of dirt, held down with tethers clutched by four robust grooms. Fantôme's silvery coat was powdered and smudged from its usual glory, and his liquid chocolate eyes, gentle eyes that would sooner melt one's heart than strike fear in it, were rolling in agony and fear. His velvety muzzle that once whickered and nudged was bloody and frothed from abuse by the cruel bridle lashed to his noble head. _

_Elizabeth's wide young eyes sought the wretched creature's, and for a brief moment their hearts fused, and she felt his anguish to her core. A tall figure stepped towards the stallion and his dark eye fixed upon it, fear and hatred unmistakable within its Cimmerian depths. _

_"What is happening, Father?" She repeated tearfully, tugging at his clenched hand desperately. _

_"Fantôme rolled his ankle this morn as the grooms prepared him for riding. It has broken and cannot be repaired." He answered through clenched teeth, knowing full well that his daughter should be hid away in her room away from this misery. _

_Elizabeth bit her lip to prevent the sobs that bubbled behind it; her body tensing as the groom raised a delicate, decorated pistol. The rolling sable eye fixed upon the gleaming filigree on the pistol, and a scream escaped the tortured muzzle and echoed in the young girl's ears. Unable to bear it a moment longer, she broke from her father and stumbled to the stallion's side. The horse kicked out in alarm at her sudden approach, the blow narrowly missing her head and falling upon her left forearm with a sickening crack. _

_"Elizabeth!" Her father cried, the blood fleeing his cheeks to leave a pale countenance. _

_She turned to him with tears falling freely from her eyelashes now. "Look, we are both broken. Should I be shot as well?" _

_The groom looked to Elizabeth and then to her father, then shrugged and holstered the pistol. Weatherby Swann took another step forward, his mouth agape. He shut it with a snap and shook his head. "No, ma cheri, you shan't be shot." _

Elizabeth lifted her head and squinted at the shapes of the sails whipping and convulsing in the wind. Were they phantoms from her nightmares, spirits lost on the crying wind?

The vision passed as Ned waved a hand before her blank face. She focused on his mouth, which formed the words _"Next sail"_, but the sound had long ago been tossed to the wind to be hurled out into the expanse of the sea.

The sunlight was painful on awakening Will's eyelids. He lay amongst some haphazardly coiled rope between two guns, the only place he could find to sleep where he was guaranteed solitude. The _Black Pearl_ was dormant, the pirates still sleeping off the effects of the raucous soiree the pervious night. Will groaned and sat up, regretting the action as his back complained. Another pain distressed him, one he had not given thought to for a length of time. Hunger.

When was the last time he had eaten? He shut his eyes from the bright glare and rubbed a thumb across the lids. He had had some sailor's biscuit and a strip of dried meat the antecedent morning aboard the _Euterpe_, but that seemed like years past.

He hauled himself to his feet and strode the length of the deck to the hatch that led below, snores issuing from the intersected grille that spanned it. Lifting this, he descended into what seemed a pit of putrid, stale air and sweaty clothes. A few scoundrels slumbered in hammocks that swayed with the gentle, creaking, rolling of the ship. Most were sprawled on the floor, some still clutching half-empty bottles around which flies swarmed greedily, their movements slow and drunken.

Rationalizing that it would do him little good to retch at the filth, Will covered his nose with his sleeve and descended farther into the _Pearl_'s belly, until he reached the sweeter air of the galley, where the boxes of spices and casks of wine had been stored after the pillage of the _Euterpe_. He found half a wheel of hard cheese and a barrel of apples and set to filling the sharp void in his stomach, preferring to put more pressing matters aside.

Grunts and moans emanated from the upper deck as the crew sluggishly woke. Will discerned the surly voice of Gibbs accompanied by heavy footfalls progressing towards the galley. The badger-like man was rubbing his eyes as he entered he cramped quarters, and cursed as his bare feet met the crates piled about the space.

"Can't no one on this blasted hulk stack neat and proper? Might 'a laid me up good with a broke foot..." He continued his jeremiad as he shoved cases out of his way, Will unable to escape being trapped beneath the sudden avalanche of crates and barrels descended upon him. Gibbs was about to exit the room when he heard Will's stifled plea for help.

"What're ye doing skulking back there, Will?" He growled as he heaved sacks of spices to the side and stacked crates of tealeaves. The shaken blacksmith emerged with his half-eaten apple and hunk of cheese with an abashed grin.

"Hungry, I suppose."

Gibbs shook his head. "Jack won't take lightly to ye being down here. Ye might take mind that ye are not part o' this crew, and aren't granted to rifle through our spoils. Keep yer hide where it belongs and no trouble'll come to ye."

"I shall take it to mind, Mr. Gibbs," Will sighed, "But, speaking of Jack, he appears to wish to overlook my presence here."

"Jack's been acting... odd lately. Can't put my finger 'xactly on it, but I gather he's feeling, ah... _pressed in _by that blasted navy. There's been wind of privateers shippin' in from the motherland, _professionals_."

Will smirked. "Norrington would not take that cordially."

Gibbs nodded solemnly, "Jack hasn't, either."

"No, the _Captain_ hasn't."

Will and Gibbs looked to the door, startled. Jack Sparrow strode into the room with his hands tucked behind his back, a sparkle to his unusually care-worn eyes. He held his shoulders with some unease, as if his body retained all the tribulation he had sustained in his transgression-filled existence.

"I must be getting to the old boy, if he requires employed marauders to capture me ship." He smiled wickedly and scrutinized the cluttered room. "I'd like this lot sorted and stored tidily by afternoon. Put Cotton to the job, if you wish. He's suited to this sort of task." Jack addressed Gibbs, then turned briskly to Will.

"Well, boy, here you are on me hands again. I suppose you want me to uproot me crew and go gallivanting off to the motherland, is it?"

"Since you have destroyed my only means of traveling there on my own account, I _am_ at a loss of how to make my destination." Will quipped, crossing his arms.

Jack chuckled, then shrugged. "'Tis none of my concern."

Will raised an eyebrow. "Oh? If I am not mistaken, this last raid has been your first in weeks. Norrington has been slowly but surely drawing the noose about your neck. How many more pirates havens will succumb to his pressure? How many more vessels will be more readily gunned and supplied? You stay in the Caribbean at your own peril, Jack."

The smile disappeared from the captain's face. "Me own, peril, eh? Where have you heard this, young louse?" He glanced sideways towards Gibbs, whose back was bent over as he worked. "Me crew? Jumpy as jackrabbits, that lot. They'd just as soon as me turn in my compass for irons if Norrington even looked their way."

Will, feeling some desperation, gestured wildly to Jack's appearance. "You cannot deceive me, Sparrow. I see worry inscribed all over your face. You have had naught but trouble hence the day you sailed from Port Royal. Would it upset your agenda so much to take a desperate man's plea into consideration?"

Jack's expression was illegible as he endured Will's diatribe. He remained silent until the young blacksmith finished, then stepped to his face, dirty index finger pointed between the young man's angry chocolate eyes. "What are you actually saying, William? I apprehend anger, and 'tis not towards me. 'Tis your own bloody fault you are stranded on me ship and you know this full well." He took a step back, expression softened into one of resignation. "This girl, you _are_ willing to die for her, yes?"

"Yes." Will hissed, fingers clenched.

"Good," was all Sparrow would say, before mounting the steps and leaving Will seething.

Through the torrent of rain that pelted her shivering body, Elizabeth discerned Ned pointing to the flapping sails far above them. They had spent the better part of the hour securing sails along the mainmast, and the last of their work was before them. He still did not recognize her, deciding to accept the help of the stranger. Ned turned and swung onto the rigging from yard on which they had been perching. Elizabeth watched him for a moment, biting one cold lip. She had managed to conquer most of the vertigo that assaulted her senses as she and he made their way slowly up the mast, but now as they climbed higher yet again, she felt the sensation returning.

The gusts were strongest here, at this place far above the cries of the sailors aboard the flagship. Elizabeth flattened her body against the rigging as she tugged herself up it to avoid the whipping of sails about her. Water streamed down her face, filling her nose and eyes. She coughed and gripped the lines tighter, making one last effort to pull herself to the swaying yard.

Ned was already perched there when she arrived, and tossed her a line as she secured herself at the opposite end. The task proved daunting, as the gale screamed in their ears and ripped the canvas sails from their fingers countless times. Elizabeth's hands were cut badly by the time they at last tied off the last knot. Grasping the yard, she looked up to see Ned staring at her, mouthing words inaudible over the shrieking wind. Shrugging, she reached up to clamp a hand over her hat, as the wind seemed determined to rip it from her hair. Her fingers touched only wet, blowing strands. Her eyes widened, and she paled.

"Unbelievable. _Inexcusable!_" The captain rattled off a lengthy list of impressive adjectives as Elizabeth sat, huddled in a thick tartan blanket as her maid, Abigail, poured a steaming cup of tea. Her hair hung in cold strings about her face, and the water dripping off them was soaking the hem of the blanket. Her face and fingers still felt like ice, despite Abigail's attempts to warm her.

"...Utterly, _inexplicably_ improper and indecent act, Miss Swann! You could have perished, _and_ you have caught a frightful chill. I swore to your uncle that you would arrive unharmed and unruffled in England, to be released into your relative's care. Shall I deliver a wheezing, broken parcel of a lady into their arms? I think not!" The captain's wig was askew as he fumed about the lavish cabin, a vein throbbing near his temple.

"His Lordship Montefiore cautioned myself that his niece was a rash lass given to whims, but I thought contrarily. You have _exploited _my trust, Miss Swann, and I have no choice but to put you under house arrest."

"What?" Elizabeth murmured, her voice broken. Her eyelids drooped... she was so exhausted.

"Sir," came Abigail's voice softly as she administered a hot cloth to her mistress's forehead, "the lady is overtaxed. Perhaps she would do better to rest, and then you may speak with her."

The captain sighed irritably. "'Tis her own doing. Very well. You may retire to your cabin now, Miss Swann. You are not to leave it without the permission of your maid or myself. Do not style yourself more of a burden on my part." He sat behind his desk and replaced the powdered wig, then picked up a quill and began scratching pretentiously upon a roll of vellum.

Abigail relieved Elizabeth of her chair, making sure the tartan blanket was secure about her lady's shoulders. They passed Ned en route to Elizabeth's cabin. The storm had been vicious to the flagship, and the sailors were engrossed with repairs. The cabin boy was coiling rope, his eyes averted from her. It had been he who dragged the sodden governor's daughter to the captain's door once they descended the entire length of the rigging. He glanced up once to see her onyx eyes glaring from behind a cold facade, and faltered beneath her stare.

"Come along now, Miss." Abigail urged, and Elizabeth turned her head and trudged to her cabin, shutting the hatch with a snap.

Will stood with Jack at the helm, his eyes fixed upon the sea before them. Somewhere, across the hyaline of cerulean and sky that merged to a seamless grey horizon, lay his beloved. His heart was heavy with longing for her, but as the wind quickened and a soft spray flew up from the billows and caressed his face, it lifted slightly. Off the flank of the _Pearl_ porpoises played in the ship's wake, their glistening backs dipping and arching in the churning turquoise waters. The two observed their antics until Jack broke the placidity and spoke.

"I hope you're not planning on dying for this girl more in the future."

Will turned to him with question. "Why is that?"

Sparrow offered a wolfish grin and shrugged as he averted his eyes to the horizon. "At this rate, your cold, dead remains be littering me doorstep before the wedding is even announced."

His laugh filled the warm, salty air with its rasping bark, then fell to humming a spirited tune that alloyed with the hiss of ocean spray and splash of porpoise belly on foaming sea.

* * *

_J'ai entendu des bruits bruyants _–I heard loud noises 

_Fantôme Chantant--_Singing Phantom

A/N: As always, reviews inspire me to write, so the more I get, the quicker and faster the words come. 'Tis a simple and beautiful thing.


	12. Capitan Gorrion and the Aquitaine Jewel

A/N: I believe this is the longest I've gone without posting, to which I offer my deepest apologies. You see, when one works one's butt off keeping in the top ten in the class, preparing for State band, then making the All-State band, and then scrambling for a solo which must be perfected and memorized, that on top of work out 40 mins a day to keep in shape, one doesn't get much time for writing.

Then comes a wonderful thing called Spring Break...

And so, the belated Chapter 12.

Chapter 12

Elizabeth thrashed in sheets damp with sweat, her forehead beaded with tiny droplets of the salty liquid. Her eyelids flew open and her body stiffened as she sat up abruptly. The onyx orbs darted about the room until they fell on Abigail watching her from a chair, the maid's hands wringing in her lap. She left her chair immediately to fetch the bucket of cold water at her feet and reached for the cloth floating within it.

"There, there, Miss. It's quite all right." She cooed while administering the compress to her lady's burning forehead.

Elizabeth fell against her pillows with a jaded sigh. Three days she had been trapped in this cabin, the dimensions of which seemed to be growing smaller with each passing day. Ten days she had ran the course of the chill she had received that frigid night and ten days her nights had been filled with fevered dreams of gunshot, smoke, and frightened brown eyes that wildly sought hers.

"... Captain wished for me to inform you that land was sighted early this morn, wanted to know how you fared..." Abigail chattered as she stripped the damp sheets to allow them air, her smooth white hands working methodically.

"Land?" Elizabeth interrupted, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"Yes. Are you sure you should be doing that now, Miss?" Abigail cautioned with a concerned eye.

"I feel much better this morn. You need not keep me abed further." Elizabeth replied crisply, ignoring the spinning sensation that clutched her skull. She pushed off from the bed with her palms, then wobbled across the room to her vanity, where she sat heavily and wondered with dismay at her reflection. A girl with tired, hollow eyes and frenzied caramel curls returned her gaze.

The punctilious white apron of her maid appeared behind her, and gentle hands took up the bone-handled brush in front of her and began stroking it through her lady's mussed locks. "We are expected to arrive in London this eve. Would you care for me to lay out your newest gown to wear for the arrival, Miss Swann?" She asked softly while deftly smoothing a knot.

"Whatever you feel appropriate, Abigail." Elizabeth sighed wearily, pondering suddenly if she could endure a lifetime of such prattle. "Might I leave the cabin before we arrive? At least to observe the docking?"

Abigail pursed her thin pink lips, her tongue clucking as she considered the request. "I shall see." She did not speak further.

Elizabeth sighed again and picked up the powder brush, deciding to remedy the dark shadows beneath her eyes at least.

The _Aquitaine Jewel _was easily the most finely decorated vessel to adorn Port Royal Harbor in its short history. Her name was scripted onto the hull in embellished calligraphy, her sails crafted of the finest canvas, her decks shone with expensive lumber, and the figurehead depicted a proud queen with flowing hair crowned by a circlet of gems. She had sailed into the harbor with all the pompous elegance of a parade stallion, her many flags and colorful banners streaming in the wind like the mane of such a horse.

Needless to say, she had been guarded by the militia with unblinking eyes. No less than four scarlet bedecked, bayonet-brandishing personnel paced the deck before her at any given time. The denizens of Port Royal who happened to glimpse the ship during their daily excursions shook their head at such magnificence. 'Twas just a ship; there was no obligation to array it in finer raiment than a raja.

The vessel abode in port for near two weeks, until her crew materialized from the town's numerous inns and taverns and began preparing her for departure. Fisherman repairing nets paused to observe the activities, as did all other marine laborers. A middling crowd had gathered at the dock by the time an imposing carriage halted before the gangplank. The door swung open to reveal an elderly man festooned in exquisite brocades and linens, a tricorner hat perched jauntily on a generous powdered wig, and a vitriolic expression. The Caribbean heat plainly encumbered the man, as his face bore a crimson flush and a damp lace handkerchief peeked from an embroidered pocket.

"Blasted sun." He was heard to mutter as his gold-buckled heels clacked on the gangplank. He clutched a jeweled-handled cane at which those in the crowd nearest him gawked nervously. "Hammel!" He called breathlessly as his feet scraped the polished deck. A thin, middle-aged man in an indigo jacket stepped from the rank of attendants that stood near the helm.

"Yes, Milord?"

"I require refreshment at precisely four o'clock," He clenched thin lips and glanced about the brilliantly tropical scenery with repugnance. "I am thoroughly inclined to be rid of this loathsome island and all memories of it." He declared, then nodded to the ship's captain and fumed into his cabin.

Hammel watched the closed hatch for a moment, his sharp profile still, as if posing for a relief on a coin. His fellow entourage stood rigid on the deck, then scrambled to their respective duties as he turned about and gestured a hand nonchalantly, the other arm bent behind his back.

The _Jewel _serenely left the dock as her moorings were freed and coiled, her prow cutting through the pacific harbor waters with all the polish of a swan. One flippant fisherman's son removed his cap and laid it across his chest, until his companion elbowed him, and he replaced the cap with a snicker.

Jack was zealous. He had been perusing the horizon with his weathered spyglass from the crow's nest, Anamaria at the helm. Will was cleaning pistols on the quarterdeck, his sword laid at his feet as he sat on an empty crate. He parsimoniously dropped the swab he held as Jack gave a tremendous whoop from his lofty position.

"'Tis like a floating windfall, I say!" He cackled while sliding down the rigging, his bangles and beads tinkling merrily.

"What d' ya see, Cap'n?" Anamaria called from the helm as Will got to his feet.

"A ship, Ana, and 'tis one of the most beautifully ridiculous canoes me eyes've beheld in eons!" His boots hit the deck with a thunk as he landed, barely having touched down when he bounded to the stern, yanking Will by the shirt in his giddy jaunt. They stood looking out to sea until Jack thrust the spyglass into his hands, gesturing wildly to a position forty-five degrees off the starboard side of the _Pearl_.

Will fitted the glass to his eye, scrutinizing the horizon until he found the source of the Captain's glee. A delicately ornamented schooner sliced through teal swells, her sails distinctly expensive and the hull painted a rich blue.

"Well?" Jack prompted after the space of five minutes.

"A windfall indeed, if you can catch her, Sparrow." Will said carefully, noting the schooner to be light and swift, built greatly like the departed _Interceptor_.

"Catch 'er? Me lad, this is the _Black Pearl_!" Jack dismissed, and cupped his hands around his mouth to summon the crew. "Look lively ya sea-dogs! All hands to mid-deck!"

As the motley bunch assembled in their filth of rags and fleas, Will remained at the stern, his eyes straining through the glass to peer at the ship's emblem once again. His brow furrowed. The figure was ominously familiar to him, and the prying breezes that dipped and tugged at his clothing seemed... colder.

"My God," fell from his lips as he lowered the spyglass in a limp hand. His skull pivoted wildly to peer back at the enthused crew and captain. There was no halting Sparrow's ambush of the schooner. An innocent Spanish flag was mockingly affixed at the tip of the mainmast, and the great blue expanse was shrinking as the _Pearl_ prepared to lay waste to the vessel containing Elizabeth's vexatious uncle with swift malice.

"What do you make of it, sir?" The _Jewel_'s lookout had descended from his precarious perch agilely to alert his senior officer, and now placed the burnished spyglass in the first mate's outstretched and inquiring palm. The distinguished seaman raised the glass to his eye and broke his marble demeanor as he squinted into it. He found the impressive figure described by the lookout easily, and frowned as it drew nearer.

"Odd. The Spanish have little business with Jamaica. 'Tis more curious that they wish to treat with a private vessel." He lowered the glass and glanced to the lookout. "Nonetheless, they may bear news of some consequence. Rouse the captain and request to drop anchor."

"Aye, sir."

"You cannot take this ship!"

"Pirate. 'Tis how I make me rum."

"Take any ship. But not _this_ one." Will's pleading eyes sought the indifferent black stones of Jack's set expression.

"Do you see any other tempting prey? Me calling is about opportune moments. I see one, I'm inclined to take hold and never forgo it. I see one now." He voiced sagaciously, then turned his head to bellow at a crewmate.

"I have told you why I must not be seen by this ship."

"Oh blast it all, boy! If you are so terrified to be seen by this bleeding lord, skulk in the hold for all me concern. Least I can give heed to me task then!" Jack barked as he donned a Spanish officers coat.

"I am no coward." Will seethed.

Jack unexpectedly swung about and pointed his pistol into the young man's heated glare. Will did not even flinch.

"You are no coward. You have never been, and I'll ne'er deem you one. You're too much o' your father—too much bloody honor and pride." He grinned suddenly and tucked the pistol into his sash. "And too much a lover, as well." He added almost as an afterthought. The amiable grin transformed into a scowl as the approach of battle drew Jack out of his musings. "Get ya to a gun, Mr. Turner. I'll see to it you stay out of sight."

Elizabeth stepped from the cabin into a scene of lively disorder, feeling oddly detached in her black mourning gown. The crew on deck ignored her, too occupied with preparing the ship for docking, but one man recoiled from her attention, and to him she strode. Ned bent over a pile of wooden crates, and appeared to have been cleaning them for replenishing, but his hands released the brush at her approach.

"Ned," She said quietly. He squared his shoulders. "I wish to tell you that I hold no ill will against you, not anymore."

He turned, face submissive. "Why is that Milady?"

"Because you did what was proper, and as much as that word vexes me, it was the seemly course of action. I can hold no blame to one who is upright." She stepped away, but her laborious breaths revealed the difficulty in her exoneration.

She readied herself to depart, but he stopped her with a gentle hand. "But still, I apologize profusely. You are a lady, but have a will far stronger than mine. I was fool to challenge it."

A smile shone in the corners of Elizabeth's eyes, and Ned knew that she still counted him a friend. "I wish you peace, Ned Pennar." She strode across the deck to the captain's cabin to make her farewells.

"The same to you, Miss Swann." Ned called after her. She cast him a cordial smile, then was admitted into the captain's quarters. The cabin boy returned to his work, and prayed that it not be their last meeting.

Despite his disinclination to condone piracy, Will nearly laughed at Jack's zest in its deception and wit. Sparrow had changed his hat and pulled his beaded dreadlocks into a passable hairstyle, and now charged up and down the decks with all the manner of a hot-blooded Spanish captain. It seemed he had used this guise before, as the crew now addressed him as _Capitán Gorrión_. His eyes sparkled wickedly when the other ship dropped anchor, and he quickly directed that the _Pearl_, now _La Perla Negro_, be steered alongside the _Jewel_.

_"Guardas tus cabezas, las canallas." _Jack said merrily to the crew, then hardened his demeanor as the catwalk was lowered between the ships. The scene fell quiet, and Will slipped into the gaggle of pirates that stood behind the captain on the mid deck from his hiding place near the guns.

Two officers and a crewmember from the Jewel made their way up the catwalk onto _La Perla's _vast deck. They were visibly uneasy to be encompassed by so many assumed Spaniards, but retained their dignity as their captain addressed _Capitán Gorrión._

"Greetings on behalf of His Grace the Baron Montefiore of England. We pray the winds have been fair." The slightly red-faced officer nodded respectfully, almost fearfully.

"_También_, señor. They have been fair indeed." Jack replied in a heavy Castillan accent. "What is _tus negocios_ in the Spanish Main?"

"His Grace is sailing home."

"Jamaica was too much for him?" Jack grinned. The _Jewel_'s captain's brow knitted.

"His business was finished there. Might I inquire as to your reason for hailing us?"

Jack waved a hand. "Tell me news of _la colonia_." He was mindful not to glance at several of his crewmembers that slipped across the gangplank at his signal.

"It fares well. The sugar crop is prosperous, the population burgeoning. Port Royal recently mourned its governor, His Grace's own kin."

"Ah, send _me condolencias_ to him. I wonder, though, who will mourn for _you_, _Capitán_?"

"I beg you pardon?" The Jewel's captain asked incredulously as he observed the Spaniard draw a cutlass.

"Oh, no, _pardon me_, _Capitán_." Jack whipped the dismayed captain around and positioned the cutlass at the man's jugular vein. The officer's companions turned to find themselves facing gun barrels, and heard the neighboring ship erupt into action as Sparrow's men opened fire. Jack strode away from the captain, and Gibbs rushed forward to collect his now lifeless body. Jack bounded onto the catwalk and hurried across to the other ship. He had business there to attend.

Will's eyes widened at Jack's sudden brutality. He had seen the pirate captain engaged in battle before, but the mercilessness of the execution was shocking to him nonetheless. The blacksmith did not have much leisure for contemplation, though, as the schooner launched a shot against the _Pearl_. He hastened to a gun and assisted Anamaria, who was attempting to load it solitarily.

"Get yer hide over there with Jack. Yer the best swordsman 'e's got. Besides, I can manage me gun, Turner." She snapped, shoving him away. She lit the tip of the fuse and covered her ears. The cannon jumped back and sent a chain shot hurtling towards the _Jewel_'s mast. It splintered and fell across the ship's deck with a crash.

Will cast her a fleeting glance, then lit up into the rigging until he found a free line. He grasped it and swung across the narrow crevasse created by the two ships' hulls and alighted on the Jewel's smoke-ridden deck. A sailor was combating a pirate Will remembered being addressed as Jarvis, and had scored a slash in the man's arm. Jarvis dropped his cutlass and clutched the wounded limb, and the sailor raised his own weapon to strike. Will slipped between them and parried the sailor's stroke. The impact of the collision triggered familiar muscles in Will's arm and chest, and with alarming speed he launched a series of assaults.

The sailor was obviously a seasoned seaman, and knew his trade well, but Will's brash strength and precision ousted him in the end. His blade fell still singing from his fingers as he bent and clutched a deep gash in his side. The hilt of Will's sword met the back of his skull, and he dropped to the deck with a dull _thunk_. Will turned about to investigate Jarvis' fate, but found the pirate dead with a bullet in his chest near the quarter deck.

Gray. London's harbor was gray. Elizabeth stood with the captain, first mate, and Abigail on the forward deck as the flagship pulled into the murky waters that sloshed around algae-riddled piers. The sky was overcast, a perfect match for the young woman's mood. "It has been a privilege escorting you home, My Lady. Give my kind regards to your Aunt."

"Yes, Captain. I thank you for your service." Elizabeth replied dully as the ship moored.

The gangplank was lowered, and as she began down it, her knees wobbled and she nearly fell, but the first mate caught her.

"Here now, you'll have a right time of it getting your land-legs back." He said cheerfully, and much to Elizabeth's displeasure, swept her into his strong arms and carried her down the gangplank and across the pier. He set her down gently before two carriages that waited at the end of the wharf and tipped his cap to her. She managed to mask her scowl and thanked him, then ignored the help of a groom and clambered into the first carriage. Her trunks were quickly lashed to the top of the carriage, and what could not fit was stowed in the other. The coffin bearing her father's corpse was brought to a hearse drawn by two black Belgians, on its way to the Swann family morgue. She watched it until Abigail joined her and the carriage started down the cobbled streets with a lurch.

"Are you glad to be arriving home at last, My Lady?" The maid ventured after a lengthy cold silence.

"This is not home." Elizabeth said curtly, her fingers undoing the latch of the small coach window. Light poured into the dark space and she breathed the fresher, if slightly pungent, air of London. They passed cathedrals and tall wooden tenements, palaces and markets, and gardens that seemed limp and overly pruned compared to Caribbean jungle. They entered the wealthy district of the city, and luxurious town houses dominated the view.

"'Ere we are." The coachman's voice came from outside, and the carriage door opened. Elizabeth stepped onto the pebbled walkway leading up to the door of a townhouse that seemed vaguely familiar. The ground heaved as she took a step, but she clenched her teeth and forced her feet to carry her safely to the door, which was held open by an aging butler to admit her.

Once inside, her balance was thrown off tremendously by a plump woman in rustling black satin who embraced her vigorously. "Oh, Elizabeth, darling. You have arrived at last!" She recognized the voice of her father's sister, Lady Catherine. Catherine had a kind face that possessed large blue eyes and small pink lips. Her nose curved up pleasantly, and her cheeks sported two soft daubs of rouge. Honey-blonde curls were piled high elegantly, and a single rope of pearls ringed her short neck.

"Hello, Aunt Catherine." She greeted warmly, but felt as if she would rather sleep off the nausea that arrested her senses.

"You must be exhausted from your journey, dear. There is a hot bath waiting upstairs and a warm bed." Abigail moved to escort her lady up the staircase, but Lady Catherine shooed her away. "You need rest, too my dear. Brigid will look after Miss Swann for the entirety of the evening."

Within ten minutes Elizabeth had shed her cumbersome black gown and sank into the bath, letting the scaling water warm her cold body.

Will fought his way across the deck, feeling a peculiar need within him to find Jack. Wherever Sparrow was, it was evidently not above deck, as he had yet to locate him amidst the melee. He found the hatch and slipped below, the cries of battle and gunshot becoming muffled. A few smoky tapers lit the darkness, and a small oil lamp hung over a square table heaped with gold and silver coins. Before the coins sat the elderly man Will recognized to be the Baron Montefiore.

In any other setting, the image might have appeared to be one of an old miser measuring his self-worth by his fortune, counting each coin as his days dwindled, but Jack Sparrow paced about the table garrulously, his pistol nestled comfortably in his hand. Will stepped on a loud plank and the Baron looked up from his coins, his sour expression deepening to one of irate disbelief.

"You." He whispered venomously while clutching some coins in his fist as if to fling them at him.

"Pay no heed to the boy. You an I have yet to settle our business." Jack drew his cutlass and pointed it at the baron, then scattered the neat piles of coins across the table with its sharp tip.

"Business? You mean to rob me and disgrace me. I remember. Nigh twenty years ago was it, Sparrow?" He laughed harshly, "You took everything from me then. Of what consequence is it to me now?"

"The lives of your sailors, your life."

Again the baron laughed. "Whether my sailors live or die is of no significance. My ship is ravaged and could not transport me home at any rate."

Jack bent low and put his face directly next to the old man's. "You suborn me so that I will not divulge your secret to those of importance."

"You would ruin me." The baron replied bitterly, shoving all the coins across the table.

"Gladly." Jack busily began stuffing a sack with his spoils.

The baron turned his embittered gaze to Will. "You astonish me, boy. You carry on your obscene affair with my niece, and then consort with his like? But I can assume why," he sneered, "considering whose son you are."

Will turned a questioning eye to Jack, who avoided the look. "Don't heed him, Will. He does not merit your regard." He finished packing away the coins and straightened. "It's old blood, not important anymore." He glared at the baron.

"Escort him to the brig, Mr. Turner."

When Elizabeth descended from her chamber, she heard the soft strains of harpsichord emanating from the drawing room. The door was ajar, and she peeked inside to discover the musician. A young girl sat clothed in a bridal-white dinner gown on a delicately carved stool. Her hair was a warm brunette that curled softly into a simple bun, and her skin was pale ivory accompanied by large, innocent blue eyes. Her hands were like white birds skimming over the keys, and notes sang from the instrument in a Viennese dance. Her posture at the harpsichord was impeccable, and she did not once glance down at her hands as she read swiftly over a sheaf of music laid before her.

Elizabeth stepped inside cautiously, but it was enough to get the girl's attention. The music stopped abruptly as she turned to observe her intruder. "Oh! Elizabeth, I am glad to see you!" She rose gracefully and offered a refined curtsey, then embraced her cousin.

"You play beautifully, Annie." Elizabeth stepped away to better admire her younger kin. "Or is it Anne, now?"

"Mother prefers visitors to refer to me as Anne. I think her silly, but..." She abandoned the topic and offered a smile. "The boys are coming home within the month. Mother wants to postpone your homecoming banquet until they arrive."

"Aunt Catherine wishes to host a homecoming banquet?" Elizabeth asked, somewhat alarmed.

Annie nodded solemnly. "She never forgave Uncle Weatherby for dragging you with him to the West Indies. She believed you would grow up a heathen. I suppose Mother means now to curb you into a proper English lady." She clasped a hand over her lips, looking horrified. "Oh, I am sorry if I offend."

Elizabeth chuckled unexpectedly. "You could not offend me, not after..." She narrowed her eyes. Annie did not look at Elizabeth like other women looked upon her. Many would recoil slightly when they met her, some with awe, others as if she were their husband's mistress. Word of her abduction by pirates made some think her a hero, and some thought her defiled, having been touched by miscreants.

"After what?" Annie's large eyes inquired.

"It is nothing. How do the boys fare, incidentally?"

Annie smiled. "They adore the university. Edward is betrothed to Lord Geoffrey's daughter, and Thomas has become quite the chess player. Mother's letters often contain pleas for them to visit." She ended with a merry laugh.

"Darling, dinner is laid." Lady Catherine poked her head inside the drawing room, then spotted Elizabeth and entered. "There you are Elizabeth! Lord White has arrived and wishes to speak with you before we dine."

Elizabeth reluctantly followed her aunt through the house to an office that sported a tall bay window that overlooked the small garden behind the townhouse. A distinguished gentleman in a generous wig seated at a desk pored over what looked to be letters of Parliament. Lady Catherine exited and the gentleman looked up with a smile.

Elizabeth knew her Uncle Arthur White very little. Whenever she visited her kin as a child, he was always away at sessions of Parliament, as he served in the House of Lords in the tradition of all the Lord Whites. He seemed to her to be a kind man whose lot in life was to provide for his family and enjoy quieter pleasures. She knew from what her father had told her once that he was an accomplished businessman, and a fair bureaucrat as well.

"Miss Swann, I am glad to see that you have arrived safely. I offer my deepest sympathy at your loss, and am happy to inform you that I have been appointed by His Grace the Baron as your guardian and manager of finances." He cleared his throat and gestured her to sit.

"How are you, Elizabeth?"

She cast her eyes down. "I wish to thank you for giving me a home. It is very kind of you."

"You are my niece, I could not turn you aside. Moreover, it is a pleasure to have you here at last. We offered to care for you when your father accepted governor, but he would have none of it. God rest his soul."

Elizabeth nodded. "Thank you."

"Now the matter of your finances. As you are aware, you are the sole heiress of your father's estate, and your mother's. Your dowry is now quite substantial, and your father's money is to be transferred to you upon your marriage, along with any land or houses he had in his possession."

Her eyes widened at discourse of such property. Every eligible bachelor in England would be beating on her doorstep to court her. She resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. "I suppose I am to marry as soon as permissible, then?"

Lord White folded his hands and nodded slightly. "That would be suitable, but you are young. Do not dwell upon it for the present."

"Is that all you wished to speak upon?"

He smiled amiably. "Yes, Miss Elizabeth. Let us adjourn to supper, now." He stood and offered his arm. She took it, and they entered the dining room together. Lady Catherine was seated at the foot of the table, and Annie at the left of the head. The butler held out the chair to the right of the head, and Lord White seated her there.

"You are guest of honor tonight, Miss Elizabeth." Lady Catherine greeted her graciously as her husband took his place at the head of the table. They all bent their heads for grace, and Elizabeth surveyed them from beneath her lashes. Despite her perpetual detachment, she felt that at last she had found a place where she could be cherished, perhaps even loved. She still wished for Will and her late father, but the acute yearning she had endured all her long journey was filling a little, and while she was still incomplete, she was not shattered.

A/N: Sigh I liked this chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who appreciates and reviews this fic. I love reviews sooo much, so here's some leftover Valentine's Day chocolate and my hopes of breaking 100.


	13. New Faces

Chapter 13

It was nearly impossible to distinguish between them now. Long departed was the impetuous boy who drew blades first and inquired later. He had been replaced by a man with some remnants of youth's impatience, but had adopted a stoical nature that was honest but shrewd. Will Turner, to Jack, was becoming ever his father's son. It was evident in the brittle way in which he steeled himself against the baron's biting remarks, in the manner in which he stringently locked the bars of the brig. The defiant boy who had cast his sword away and stood for his honor had become a man of similar distinction, and Jack found that he respected him.

But when Jack caught Will's eyes, he was met with hard pools of distrust and uncertainty, and then was pushed roughly aside as the blacksmith tramped up the rickety steps onto the deck.

"I don't affect to be ignorant, Mr. Turner."

Will turned swiftly. "It is as if the whole of the Spanish Main knows of my father's past, save me, his only son." He drew a shaky breath; "I won't be an unwitting witness anymore, Jack."

"Aye." Jack sighed, perceiving the impending conversation to be a long time in coming. He took a step backwards into the dim belly of the Pearl. "Come on, then. Have a drink."

To Jack's surprise, Will followed him silently, and took the mug of rum offered him, but swilled it untouched in his hands as he sat at a low table in the galley. Jack took the seat opposite him heavily, his uneven mustache twitching as he took a great draught.

"I met your father when he was a young merchant-turned-privateer. His head was filled with flighty ideals about good n' evil, much like yours I'll wager." He grinned roguishly and wiped his mouth on a filthy sleeve. "At that time your father was workin' for the crown, and he reported his acquirements to a lord named Montefiore."

Will's expression was one of disbelief. He opened his mouth but Jack shushed him with a drunken wave. "Aye, lad." He took a deep drink and set the tankard down noisily.

"In those days I wasn't the sea-savvy scoundrel sittin' before you. I was reckless and your father caught me terrorizing merchants out in the North Sea." He leaned back in his chair and propped his rather rank boots upon the table. "He was takin' me back to England when me devilish charm and wit got the better of him. He became me friend. He didn't like to take me in, but he made it to London harbor, anyway. Things turned rough."

Will stared into the deep amber depths of the rum; he was struggling to believe that his family and Elizabeth's had been so intertwined, and yet their worlds seemed so far removed from the other. It was a strange paradox and he could not make sense of it.

"Your father's ship was fired upon," Jack drawled, shaking Will from his reverie, "Officers called out to his ship as he held them off. He was under arrest for takin' too large a percentage of the spoils from his gains, and it made him an enemy of the crown."

Will started, but again Jack held him in check. "Your father wasn't a pirate then, boy."

Jack removed his boots from the table and leaned forward. "Bill kept a neat record of every transfer of seizure to his employer. The only explanation was that the honorable Montefiore was keepin' the money for hisself." He leaned back again with a distasteful expression on his dark features. "'Twas easy to blame a poor roustabout. Bill was cornered closer n' a rat dog. But, we managed to get outta there, and hid out among the Dutch merchants in Africa for a time. By then we both knew Bill was better off followin' me route."

Elizabeth awoke abruptly, disoriented. It had taken hours for sleep to claim her; having grown used to the lull of the ocean's waves. The room about her was frighteningly unfamiliar, with strong moonlight pouring in the tall window, and noble, though unadorned, furniture neatly arranged around a spacious four-poster. She sat up and pushed the lace bed hangings aside, her feet coming to rest on cool boards.

She shut out the light with heavy eyelids and cold hands and struggled to make sense of her surroundings. The images in her head pulsed and flitted like a devious will-o'-the-wisp, fantasy and reality fusing to form an impossible mass to interpret. As the dreams diffused into her subconscious, the memories of the previous day assembled slowly. She slept in the room given her by Aunt Catherine... She was in London, England, specifically, and she was cold.

Lifting her head, she reached for the dressing gown laid over the armchair by the night table and pulled it over her shivering shoulders. The fire in the grate had fallen to embers, and only a few sticks rested in the tinderbox. She padded silently to the hearth and built up a small, steady glow, then lit the lamp and settled with a sigh into a plush chair.

Whilst she collected and recognized her surroundings, the matter of the dreams that had been occurring lately surfaced in her mind.

There were always two. When she was most upset or angry she dreamt of Will. Visions of their battles together aboard the _Pearl_ haunted his image, and as he would reach out to touch her, he would disappear into a wisp of smoke, and she would find herself surrounded by darkness and the sound of the sea. The sea would undulate into confusing patterns; hollow skull eyes would drift gloomily around her shapeless form. Then skeletal hands gripped her skin.

The other dream was mistier, the images larger, viewed from the eyes of a child. Elizabeth recognized the fuzzy recollections of the glamorous lives of her parents when she was small and peered down at dinner parties and balls from behind stair rails, her imagined cage. Her mother wore varying shades of rose, peach, and golden tones that swirled about her gaily. Her father was much younger, and the only lines on his face were those from smiles.

As her thin, childlike body rocked on the stairs, a tall figure emerged from the crowd of swirling colors, dark hair pulled back, but his face blurred and the only thing that could be recognized about him was an aura of curiosity. His hand extended to the child Elizabeth, and just as their fingers touched, Elizabeth would awaken.

As she curled in the chair with midnight moon silvering the darkness, she tried to discern messages from the dreams. The tall man seemed to be separate from the memory: a figure from Elizabeth's psyche fused with fact. She could not place any particular face on him—not even Will's.

The other dream disturbed her to dwell on it. She supposed it merely epitomized her fears for Will and their future. She could only pray that it did not foretell death to anyone embroiled in her and her lover's twisted fates.

As she opened her eyes, she found them heavy, and they flickered slowly to the bed that suddenly seemed inviting. She was exhausted in body and mind, and knew now that sleep would bring peace, if only for the remainder of the night. It would have to suffice.

The loot acquired from the _Aquitaine Jewel_ was considerable. The food found in her pantries was of excellent quality, and even the sheets from the luxurious feather bed would fetch a handsome price. The baron's ration of 'pocket' money was ridiculous; besides what Jack had forced out of him, Montefiore still had a modest chest of gleaming gold crowns tucked into a false drawer below his bed. Will was amazed that Jack even knew to look for such an unassuming recess.

"You'll find with men of Montefiore's station that they sleep with a knife beneath their pillow and their wealth below their heart." Jack quipped as he transferred the chest to Will, who was surprised at its ample weight. Jack busily began stripping the bed of its silken linens. On the mirrored vanity lay a velvet-lined box of rings and cuff links, and in another box lay a spare powdered wig. Jack tossed this box to the floor, and tucked the case of jewelry under his arm. Jack moved to exit the room.

"You have not checked the wardrobe." Will interjected.

"There's naught of any value to be found in there. Besides, I'm the captain, I take what I want, and leave what's left to me men."  
"I thought your code demanded an equal allotment of plunder."

Jack stepped back and raised his index finger to his lips, then turned abruptly and tucked the linens and jewelry case beneath his rather voluminous but shabby jacket. Despite his disapproval, Will could not help but grin as he followed the captain out onto the deck.

Out in the air, the deck was in chaos. The sails lay in heaps over coiled rope, the hatch doors were thrown wide open, and barrels of goods were being rolled out from below.

"You shall have a rousing time striving to spend this lot in London." Will jokingly remarked.

Jack did not turn to face him, and Will thought the lack of waggish retort peculiar.

"Jack?"

"'Tis a glorious day for the Lord, Miss Elizabeth!" the chambermaid chirped as she flung the heavy curtains aside.

Elizabeth, who had the glorious daylight penetrating her weary eyelids, found the day anything but. She rolled over and buried her head beneath a frilled pillow and let forth an unladylike groan.

The maid moved to tend the fire, and Abigail emerged from the wardrobe. She clutched a Sunday frock that was—of course—black. Elizabeth had come to loathe the color. She pulled the coverlet over her head defiantly.

"I've no time for theatrics this morn, Miss Swann. The carriage leaves at half past the hour, and Lady White expects you swallow a respectable breakfast." Abigail coolly peeled back the coverlet and laid the gown over the teak-and-silk screen, which was the only item of the room Elizabeth had brought from her home in Port Royal. It had belonged to her mother, and had birds of paradise and lotus blossoms embroidered delicately on a pale blue field. The teak was highly varnished and smelled faintly of cinnamon.

Elizabeth sat up begrudgingly and ran a hand through her tousled hair. She stood and crossed the cold floorboards and sat before a rather unappetizing bowl of porridge. A cup of tea near it smelled more inviting, and she sipped this as she pretended to read the hymnal placed beside her meal. The maid and Abigail had struck up a conversation, and Elizabeth felt it a more engaging distraction.

"I gather Madame intends to burden us with this young lord's visit. Twenty ducks I hear to be plucked."

_A young lord?_ Elizabeth's stomach flooded with ice; she caught herself short of gagging on her tea.

"Madame had better watch herself. She's a mind to be frivolous, the family's in mourning for a fair time more."

"Aye, but, Madame despairs over the young lady's trousseau. She does not wish for her own daughter to be overlooked. The seamstress was told to purchase a bolt of ecru voile and all manner of ridiculous ribbons and lace just last week."

"Madame is also arranging for a new gown of bombazine for the young mistress. Things shan't be calm around here in the coming days."

Elizabeth exaggerated putting down the hymnal and teacup, and the other women looked in her direction. Abigail bustled over with a false smile pasted on her thin lips. "Come along, Miss Swann. The Lord and Lady are eager to see you join their congregation."

"You mean, we are not to sail for England!" Will shouted as he followed a rather compunctious Jack Sparrow into the captain's quarters. "Perhaps you misunderstand my desperation to arrive there in haste?" His hand went to the hilt of his sword instinctively, but he did not draw it.

Jack suddenly rounded upon him. "Firstly, Mr. Turner, _your_ desperation ranks very low on me slate of priorities."

Will resisted the urge to offer a puerile scowl.

"Second, I'd cut off me own hand 'fore I sail into civilized waters with this cargo. Third," He grinned and stroked his mustache, "That little boat is too fine a' thing to just leave as driftwood. I aim to haul it to Nassau."

"Nassau?" Will sighed crossly.

"Aye, the best place to retire after a bounteous harvest such as this—" He made a sweeping movement with a filthy hand—"and an admirable port for repairs."  
"How long do you aim to 'retire' there, _Captain_?"

"Oh, until I've had me fill of dry land... N' rum, 'course." Jack replied airily. He removed the chest from his coat and shook it with a whimsical expression.

"Sailing to Nassau would require turning round. We are near the middle of the ocean, Jack!" Will fumed.

Jack shrugged. He replaced the chest and glanced at Will. "Don't fret, William. I trust

Miss Elizabeth will still be waitin' fore you." He ushered Will from the cabin.

"One thing, Jack; your grasp of trust is far colored from the norm." Will muttered as he hauled himself up the nearest rigging. The ropes surged beneath his feet and hands as he ascended, and thus he glanced out to sea as he steadied himself. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that if he were to ever see Elizabeth again, and preferably before she became the prize of some contemptuous aristocrat, that he would have to cease relying on Jack Sparrow's feeble promises.

Elizabeth tried not to be daunted by the size of the cathedral and the crowd milling into it. She observed anxiously from the carriage window, painfully aware of her sweaty palms. She shifted the hymnal from one hand to the other and toyed with the strings of the sable bonnet arranged over her curls. Annie and her mother chatted softly on the seat beside her, and Lord White sat sleepily opposite her. Outside Elizabeth could hear the snorts and clatter of the horses. As Elizabeth bit down on one of the strings, she felt Catherine pat her arm reassuringly.

"Ready, Dear?" She murmured.

Elizabeth merely nodded and rose to her feet as a plump groom held the coach door open. She ignored his offered hand and stepped onto the cobblestones unaided; she feigned mild disinterest, but glanced around at the multitudes with trepidation. As the White family joined her, heads turned in her direction. Lord White took his wife's arm and joined the throng streaming past the cathedral's magnificent doors. Annie turned her kind blue eyes on her cousin, and Elizabeth grudgingly followed. She had no pretenses about attending worship—having been a regular at the small chapel in Port Royal--but the thought of having to personally greet each and every one of these modish Londoners left an acrid taste in her mouth.

As they entered and strode past the pews, Elizabeth observed that the poorest of the assembly took their seats in the back, and that Lord White was leading them to a pew near the front. She vaguely remembered her father procuring the front bench in the chapel on Port Royal, and understood that here, too, even worship was not exempt from social stratum.

Once they took their seats, Catherine busied herself introducing Elizabeth to every lord and lady within length, and Elizabeth procured the unpleasant notion that she would be expected to regurgitate each noble's name upon command very soon.

"... Lady Ashley and her sons, _hello_ Jerry, and you, Colin." Catherine said loudly, aware that her niece imparted little attention. Elizabeth snapped out of her fixed stare and allowed the young boys in the forward pew to kiss her hand. "Lady Ashley will be joining us soon for a luncheon." Catherine informed.

"Do you enjoy spades?" Elizabeth addressed the boys.

The younger child's brow furrowed, but the elder spoke up, "Father does not allow us to play card games." He granted her a serious expression.

Elizabeth, feeling foolish, barely managed a soft "Oh."

"Jerry and Colin have lessons that day." Catherine covered swiftly.

The opening strains of a hymn were emanating from the lectern, and as the congregation quieted and settled in for the lengthy service, Elizabeth forced herself to resist burying her forehead in her hands.

"All I ask is a skeleton crew, the fewest number of men you can spare." Will pleaded, following Jack as the pirate captain picked his way through a myriad of wine caskets. Will supposed he should have known better than to attempt to distract Sparrow when loot was at hand, but he also knew that once the pirate's intent solidified, it rarely softened. Then, Will's mind shifted like the gears of a clock. He hurried after Jack.

"You've captured a Lord, Jack! Do you not expect that England will have every privateer in the Atlantic after you?" Will demanded.

Jack's expression remained unaltered as he hunched over to check the dates on the wine caskets. "Fifteen-eighty." Jack murmured hoarsely, turning the casket over in wonder. But he had determinedly avoided Will's question.

"Towing his ship will slow you down, make you an easier target. Allow me to take the _Jewel_, that way, any soul coming round to investigate shan't know which ship you took." Will leaned in expectantly, knowing he'd at last tethered Jack into his reasoning.

"Mr. Gibbs!" Jack shouted crossly, heaving the wine over his shoulder, "See me in me cabin, NOW!"

For days, Elizabeth endured endless dress fittings, constant chatter from Abigail and the maids on menus and musicians, and, worst of all, sly remarks from Catherine about the grand manner of gentlemen whom might soon be requesting Elizabeth's calling card from Lord White. Elizabeth would scowl at these proposals and reply that she had no calling cards, and, if she had, would not have given them to any of London's spoiled polo brats.

Eventually, though, the eve of the banquet arrived with brightly-lit candles, mercilessly polished silverware, and ridiculous gowns that rustled and caught on things everywhere. Elizabeth wryly thought that her gown, though black, was inappropriate for a girl in mourning. The neckline was audaciously low-cut, and the hoop skirt flared out demurely from a triangular-cut waist that accentuated her hips. Annie's gown was done in a similar fashion, albeit in a pale spring green. It took a great deal of Abigail's scolding to wrestle Elizabeth into that dress, but it could not keep the guest of honor from sulking for a good measure of the evening.

One of the young gentlemen, Elizabeth noticed halfway through the soup course, seemed to notice her discomfort, and his eyes twinkled in mirth. He was, Elizabeth discovered after inquiring uninterestedly of Annie, John Brougham, an upstanding man of London, a member of the racing club, and an avid shooter. He held several investments in shipping companies, and was moderately wealthy by his own means.

Elizabeth wondered, then, why he, a commoner, sported the most expensive jacket and diamond buttons in a room of Lord's sons. Because, Annie informed mysteriously, he had a secret benefactor.

Elizabeth ceased her query then, and studied the gentleman through lowered lashes, feigning disinterest. He, however, never moved his staid dark eyes from her chair.

Elizabeth looked up when her uncle finished a hearty chortle and clapped his gloved hands merrily. "My friends. I have been granted the pleasure of introducing one Miss Elizabeth Swann to your company, newly arrived from the Caribbean colony."

The guests nodded politely in her direction, murmuring pleasant salutations.

"Lady White and I are delighted to have her in our home, though, I know," His face grew solemn, "She still yearns for her late father."

Elizabeth looked down, determined not to reveal emotion.

"A toast in Weatherby Swann's memory, and to consoling his grieving child." Lord White raised his glass. The guests followed suit, all taking light sips of their wine. Elizabeth noticed that John Brougham held his glass to her the longest, and took a lengthy drought before placing his glass before him. He studied her features, forcing her to look away again.

At the conclusion of the evening, the young gentlemen took their time filing past the cluster of ladies who stood blushing in a corner of the drawing room. Many a handsome lad tipped his hat to Elizabeth, who met their toothy smiles with a face that was beautiful, but cold and rigid as a tombstone. Their smiles would falter and fade--all but the enigmatic Jack Brougham. He alone had to pluck to extend a calling card to Elizabeth, offer a deep bow, even kiss her stiff hand! Elizabeth watched him through the window of the drawing room as a tall black stallion was brought for him, and as he trotted away down London's darkened streets. She doubted she'd seen the last of him.

Will stood, at last, with hands running down the length of the _Jewel_'s helm, his crew of seven men scurrying about the vessel's deck as it prepared to jettison from the _Pearl_'s side. Jack had at last conceded a skeleton crew to man the schooner, after stripping her completely of valuables, of course. He had set his bearings for Nassau, and had granted Will a few begrudging words of advice about captaining a ship into civilized waters. Will had taken the advice distractedly. He was fervent to be on his way.

"Now you listen here, young Turner." Jack said sharply before Will swung down the ladder onto the dingy that was to transfer the crew to the _Jewel_, "Keep your head on the Atlantic. She's a beast of an ocean. But I imagine," He grinned. "that you worry about what you'll say to your lady after abandoning her for so long." Will did not reply. He was already clambering onto the deck of the ship that would take him, finally, to Elizabeth.


End file.
